The Sky's Gonna Open
by poestheblackcat
Summary: This is a story in which Eliot gets de-aged and kicks Nate in the nads, his twin Lindsey turns up to get him out of trouble but laughs himself sick first, Hardison geeks out, Sophie is bad with children, and Parker is Dorothy. "McDonald Boys" verse.
1. Prologue

AN: This is what happens when Poesie reads deaged!Eliot fanfic whilst searching for more _Angel/Leverage_ crossovers to read at 3 a.m. Surprisingly (for me), it's not crack, but there are definitely some funny moments ahead. Also, note that I am apparently certifiably insane, but that has never stopped you guys from reading and liking my work (not sure what it says about you), so I hope that it won't now.

This story takes place in the series that I am now dubbing "The McDonald Boys verse" which begins (so far) with "Drunk Dialing, the McDonald Way," and continues with the one-shots from "Three Times Eliot Showed up at Lindsey's Place Uninvited and Three Times Lindsey Showed up at Eliot's." This particular story is next, but all three may be read as standalones. Time-wise, it's post-_Angel_ and Season 4(-ish, maybe post-) of _Leverage_.

By the way, for those interested in knowing, the idea for this came first, then "Drunk Dialing," and then the six related one-shots in "Three Times." Things mentioned in one story may be elaborated on in others, etc. Also, this story is 100% written, so no leaving off in the middle of it for other _shinier_ story ideas.

Enjoy!

Summary: This is a story in which Eliot gets de-aged by a witch and kicks Nate in the nads, his twin Lindsey turns up to get him out of trouble but laughs himself sick first, Hardison geeks out about werewolves, Sophie is terrible with children, and Parker is Dorothy. Also, Eliot throws a tantrum or two and Batman is more awesome than Spongebob. Deaged Eliot, _Angel/Leverage _crossover.

Title from Christian Kane's song, "LA Song," alternately called "Pretty as a Picture," which he sang in an episode of _Angel_.

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><p>. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<p>

**The Sky's Gonna Open**

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**Prologue**

They're not quite sure how it all happened. They know that there was chanting involved, black candles, weird, smoky smells, not a small amount of blood, and dead and missing people, but that's all. That, and black magic.

But that stuff's not real…

Is it?

But…

One minute, they're yelling at Eliot over the coms, and the next, they have a hitter who looks like he should be in kindergarten.

That shit ain't normal, any which way you look at it.

(The slightly hysterical thought that they should at least be thankful that he's not in diapers does cross more than one member of the team's minds, though, if only for the reason that Nate's the only one who knows how to change a diaper or knows anything at all about babies and potty training. Eliot insists that he's not really a little kid, goddammit! But he does have a knee that needs band-aiding, thank you very much. And shut up, Hardison.)

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><p>AN: This is much shorter than the rest of the chapters will be, but prologues are often very, very short, right? Are you hooked, at least?<p>

Moving on…

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><p>To my fave anon. reviewer, Partypony (and those nosy people who like to read notes to people not themselves [I see you!])-<p>

I wrote it! How about you get that account now, huh? *wink* That way people can't read our notes to each other and laugh at our combined silliness. (Did you read the review that said our notes were more entertaining than the story and thought we should write one together? See? Stuff like that happens when we air our insanity in public. Thank you, Bprice, by the way. I'm glad we were able provide such amusement. Purely unintentional, however. This is the way we - at least I - normally talk.) 'Tis more private if we use PMs. But if you prefer to do this out in the open, that's fine, too. To prove my sincerity on this matter, here's my reply to your last review on "Three Times," even though you said I don't have to:

Giant goofy grin - Was that in goo form again, or in humanoid form? I think I prefer the gooey version, since that way you get a good bit of alliteration from "goofy," "grin," and "goo" (but not from "giant" because that word makes a "juh" sound)…Eliot is totally domesticated. I mean, he cooks, and you can bet he fusses at the team about eating their veggies even in canon (just like he does in my stories). He has a garden (also canon). Seriously…Domesticated lion? I always see him more as a wolf, but that's probably all the wolf names in Chris Kane's previous roles making me think that (ex: Wick LOBO, Abe "High WOLF" Wheeler, and then there's the WAHYA, which is "wolf" in Cherokee, on his t-shirt in his music video…). Lion works, too, though. _Secondhand Lions_…No, no! No cans in the microwave. Only the inside of the cans. You dump out the Spaghetti-Os into a bowl and hit 1:30 (or whatever, depending on wattage - isn't it interesting how much "wattage" sounds like "cleavage"?) and it gets all nice and hot. *shifty eyes* What? It's normal college student cuisine, okay? Don't judge my Lindsey-esque cooking skills. Cooking _is_ harder than magic…When Eliot said, "I hired a nurse," I was like, "Oh, okay. Makes sense." Then Hot Lips Houlihan turned up, and I was like, "No, Eliot. Bad." So I turned her into a Healer instead, turning "Stupid Eliot!" into "Smart, Sneaky Eliot"…Parker invades. It's in her nature. Poke-poke…It's just been the two of them against the world up until now, so when the team invades Eliot's life like some weird kind of in-laws or adopted family, Lindsey naturally gets a bit upset. _His_ brother. His. *insert pout*…Ketchup - Aww, poor you. It was supposed to be one of those things in fiction to make people laugh where one character does it and the other gets huffy/upset. I didn't know people really did that. I don't even put ketchup on fries, so I probably wouldn't dump it on your pork chops. :D …Carrot cookie brownies, you mean? That part is important. The cookie part. Bruce the fluffy lavender plot bunny loves them…I can imagine Eliot meeting Angel: "You're how old and you're still acting like an emo teenager? Grow up. And Linny, stop provoking him. I swear, I'm talkin' to a coupla little boys." Uh-oh, go away, Brucie!...Yeah, poor Mrs. McDonald. But she was one tough lady, so she was okay…Revenge? Yeah, well, just read this and see how both the team _and _the brotherly dynamics change when Eliot is age-regressed.

So since this is possibly the last note pass unless you decide not to get an account (which is okay, too, no pressure), so long and thanks for all the fish! *giggle* I think that fic might be one of the few on this site where the reviews page gets as much traffic as the actual story. :P

And how about that? My Author's Notes are longer than the chapter. Shame on me. It was only a joke before, but it literally turned out that way.


	2. Taken

AN: Sorry about the shortness of that first chapter. I swear, it did look longer in my Word doc. But it's a Prologue! (excuse) This one is about the average length of the rest of the story. The first part of this chapter is meant to come off as very ramble-y and kind of strange. It's not my typical writing style to _not_ distinguish between spoken language and the rest of the story, but I think it works in this context. The rest of the story isn't like this. It's more like the second part of this chapter.

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**Taken**

It starts with a bunch of disappearances.

Homeless men and women, migrants and misfits who wouldn't be missed by most of society. But those amongst them notice. They see, and they hear (Ol' Crazy Jon hain't been around lately, he ain't jumped the rails, gone out west, too early for that, maybe he kicked it, Red Marie and Lil' Ronnie ain't here no more neither). They whisper and huddle closer together. They don't venture out on their own, but in pairs, groups. They pass up opportunities they normally wouldn't in favor of sticking together, preferring hunger over being taken.

No one else sees. Boston continues to bustle and swarm around them, the invisible, least-loved members of their society.

But one man does take notice. It's his job to. He sees how they sit in clusters at night instead of spread out across town like they usually are. He sees fewer of them on the street, and more of them in the sewers (he sometimes traverses the dark underground highway to lose a possible tail or merely to keep in practice). He hears the muted whispers tinged with dread. He feels the fear, the constant terror they live in.

And he asks. He asks them, What are you so afraid of? What's scaring you? Where's the guy who used park his old wire shopping cart in the doorway of the dressmaker's shop on 12th and Elm, who used to wear the yellow-and-green striped sweater on his head, rain or shine? The crazy old man who liked to quote Bob Marley and Nietzsche? And the lady with the big, sad eyes and the dirty teddy bear tucked into her red duffel bag with the broken zipper? Where are they?

And they tell him, Gone. They're gone, they're all gone. And more are being taken every day.

Who? the man asks, anger glinting in steely blue eyes.

He's dangerous, they can sense that, but they don't fear him. He protects them, in a way; he's always willing to buy them coffee and a sandwich when times are rough and leaves them with the change and then some. They find warm clothes and blankets and cough medicine left surreptitiously in their usual haunts when the weather gets cold. He doesn't feel sorry for them, and they appreciate it. He doesn't smile, but neither do they.

They help him, too. When he's running, and someone's chasing, a dangerous someone (or someones), they mislead the chaser (he went that way, suh, help a po' man out, thankee suh) or keep mum, trip them up, help the man get away, away from the bad man. If there's been someone lurking around his place while he's been gone, they'll let him know, say to him, Don't go home tonight, bad night to go home. And when he's hurt, they see it, and they watch, make sure he gets home alright, no touching, he doesn't like touching or grabbing (who does?), but he always gets home.

So when the man asks, Who? they tell him, The Shadows, they come, they steal into the night, and they take you away, the Shadows come. They'll eat you alive, they will, they'll make you scream, they'll take your shoes, all the clothes you own, all that you're wearing, they'll take them, and then they'll gut you, and you cry like a lil' chile. I seen it, they tell him, With my own two eyes, the Shadows, they come.

I can help, the man tells them. I'll help you. And they believe. Because he's a good man, a dangerous man, but a good one nevertheless, and him, they can trust, with all their paranoia (it ain't paranoia if it's true, they're watching, always watching, they're coming for you, for me, for him), he's one they can trust. He'll fight for them when no one else will.

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"We got a new job. Someone's been kidnapping homeless people offa the streets at night," Eliot announces, as he strides into Nate's apartment.

"How the hell d'you know that?" Hardison asks. "You memorize everyone's faces on the way to work? You do, don't you?"

"They told me."

"You talk to homeless people?" Parker asks. "Why? They smell bad and eat garbage."

"You're one to talk. You live in a warehouse that doesn't have running water," Eliot retorts with a scowl. "Don't even get me started on what _you_ eat."

"Since when, and how many?" Nate asks.

Eliot relaxes, just slightly. "As far as I can make out, it started maybe three, four months ago, about thirty people altogether." He frowns. "And it seems more people disappear um, this is gonna sound strange…"

"You already strange, man, so go right ahead," Hardison says, and takes a healthy gulp out of his bottle of orange soda.

Eliot doesn't rise to the bait, which is highly unusual in itself. "They told me, 'the Shadows come at night when it's getting bright and round. Not when it smiles.' And they don't mean dawn."

"The moon," Parker says, and nods. "Full moon."

They all stare at her.

"What?" she says, and Hardison interrupts with her oft-used rationalizing statement, "You're a thief?"

"Yes! But that's not what I was going to say. I don't like doing jobs when it's a full moon."

"Why? Are you a werewolf?" Hardison asks, starting to get excited, "Werecat?"

"Don't be silly, Hardison," Sophie sighs, "There isn't any such thing. Eliot, do you really think…? Crazy people are called _lunatics_ for a reason. They say the phases of the moon affect one's sanity, and- "

"That theory doesn't exactly work in modern settings, Sophie," Nate says. "Eliot?"

"Full moon's this week," he tells them, "and four people are already missing."

"Okay," Nate says, walking out of the room with his coffee. "Let's go steal…homeless lunatics."

"Why don't you like being out in a full moon?" Hardison asks Parker again.

Parker looks at him with disdain. "You don't notice very much, do you? Too much visibility. They'd see me on the roof."

"So you're not a were-anything? Because that would be cool if you are. As long as you don't bite anyone, of course."

"Hardison, they aren't real," Sophie tries again to reason with the hacker.

"Actually," Eliot starts.

"No," Sophie turns to him and picks up her china cup of cream tea in one deliberate movement. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know," she says firmly and goes to join Nate in his office.

Eliot shrugs, and sips from his own mug.

Hardison appears at his side. "Eliot, man, really?" He looks like a puppy waiting eagerly for Eliot to throw him a treat.

The hitter throws him a cool glance instead. "Really what?"

"Werewolves." The younger man is practically drooling.

"Yeah, sure," Eliot says in his usual offhand way, making Hardison's eyes bug out, "Knew one who was dating this vampire. Didn't work out, from what I hear. Oh, and did I tell you about the one demon from the dimension Pylea whose clan disowned him for liking humans and singing show tunes instead of killing people? Crazy anomaly, I can tell you. Except, well, he did shoot my brother, but that's a long story."

"Screw you," Hardison says with something between a glower and a pout. He sweeps his laptop off of the breakfast table and storms into the living room area.

Eliot _almost_ smiles into his tea. His teammate can be so easy sometimes.

"Why didn't he believe you?" Ah, Parker. She sees more than they think.

He puts the mug down. "He doesn't really want it to be true, Parker. Just like he doesn't actually _want_ to drive like he does in that game where he steals cars."

It always makes Eliot want to tear the joystick out of Hardison's hands and throw it at a wall whenever the hacker plays that game when he's around. One too many whoops and "Take that, suckas!" would do that to just about anybody.

"Real life and imagination," he says, "There's a difference."

Parker tilts her head to the side, thinking it over. "I drive like that in real life."

Eliot really does smile into his tea this time. "Yes, you do, darlin'."

"I met a ghost once," she tells him, "She was lonely."

He nods, "They can get like that. What did you do?"

"I talked to her."

"That was nice of you," he tells her. Positive reinforcement is good. Maybe Sophie's lessons are paying off after all.

"I was lonely, too. Before I met you guys."

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AN: The werewolf who dated the vampire is Nina Ashe, who had a fling with Angel in Season 5, and the demon from Pylea who sings is Lorne.


	3. Ding Dong

AN: Title from - Well, if I have to tell you, you were seriously deprived as a child. Either that or really, really lucky and non-traumatized.

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**Ding Dong**

They're too late to stop a fifth victim from being taken, but by the next night, they're able to find where the bad guy's hanging out.

Or bad _woman_, rather, as they find out from Hardison's hacks into the city's security and traffic camera networks. She's a scrawny old biddy who looks like she ought to be knitting baby booties or playing bingo with the gals, but she can pack a wallop, and she's strong enough to drag fully-grown (albeit pitifully undernourished), sedated adults into her absolutely average silver sedan and drive them to the warehouse in the business district where she spends most of her nights.

She works alone, and it's nothing like how any of them had imagined this would turn out to be. They'd thought, maybe, the homeless are being taken for the human slave trade, or as guinea pigs for some new secret drug, or _something_ leading to another bigger thing that they can take down, but no, this reads like something out of a horror movie.

Her eyes glint oddly silver in the video feed when she looks directly into a camera, which Hardison claims is a sign that she's a shapeshifter and swears he's read about something like this in a book, and pulls up some _Twilight_-esque horror series as proof. Nate's more inclined to believe that they're some sort of reflective contacts, perhaps to avoid retina recognition software, and Sophie thinks it's just a camera flare. Parker hums and glances at Eliot when she sees it. He's scowling at the screen, arms crossed across his chest.

There's nothing about this woman that can be linked to any one identity - her car's registered to a different name from the one on her house, and it doesn't match the name on her birth certificate either. They're all fakes. A search using Hardison's facial recognition program and a scan of her face doesn't turn anything up anywhere. She's a ghost (well, not _literally_; they don't exist_, right Eliot?_).

So they follow her to the warehouse, and Parker sneaks in with Eliot as backup. It's strange, she thinks, and not like her warehouse at all. It's all dark and creaky, uncomfortably damp and _drippy_. Gross. There are chalk drawings all over the walls and the floors, and even on the ceiling (she wonders what kind of rig the old bat used to reach all the way up there), and huge, melted candles, and it smells weird.

It smells like death. She creeps further inside, and that's when she sees it. The corpse of a child, no, children. Five children, all in a row. All bloody. All dead.

She's about to tell the team when, right behind her, she sees a shadow. The huge, dark shadow, of bat-like wings arching out of a creature the like of which she's never seen before. She squeaks, and the shadow says something that sounds old and ancient like the dry, crackly parchment in the medieval writings she's seen in museums but passed by for things shinier.

And then it all goes black.

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"_Parker! Parker, dammit, answer me. Parker!"_

"Eliot? What was that?"

"_Parker made a noise that I don't like the sound of,"_ Eliot replies through his com. _"I'm gonna go check it out."_

"Eliot…"

"_You guys stay put. I mean it."_ And he's off.

For several minutes, there is no sound. And then they hear a muted, _"Dammit,"_ a dry rustling, and a dull thud.

Nate's already out of the van, pacing behind it, yelling his hitter's name, his thief's name, Sophie and Hardison following suit, when they hear the chanting. It's so clear that it's got to have been said directly into either Eliot or Parker's earbud.

None of them recognize the language, but it sends shivers down their backs all the same. The voice is dry, bone-dry, crackling like crushed leaves in the fall. The laugh at the end is chilling.

Then there's a grunt and whooshing noise, and then a terrible scream.

It jerks the three of them into motion, and they run into the warehouse, not caring for their own personal safety, but only the well-being of their teammates.

They skid to a stop in the middle of the warehouse. Parker's there, standing in an odd position, like a pitcher after a throw, staring at a candle on the ground, tipped over sideways. The thick black wax is melting and hardening on the floor. There's an old silver dagger, too, dried blood on the blade.

Her throat's working, and when she notices the others, she says, "I think I'm Dorothy," in the vaguest voice they've heard her use yet.

"Parker," Sophie says, and rushes to her, gathering her up in her arms. "Are you alright? Are you hurt? Where's Eliot? Where's that woman?"

Parker giggles. "She burned up," she tells them. "All gone. Whoosh."

Hardison puts an arm around her. "Mama, you okay now. Alright? We gotcha."

Nate's crouching by the still, unclothed body of a small boy lying on a chalked-on design on the cold, concrete ground nearby. The exposed skin is pale, making the long eyelashes stand out darkly in contrast against the bloodless cheeks. He doesn't look much older than five, maybe six, seven if you take into account the thinness of his ribs.

"Oh," Sophie sighs, hand fluttering to her chest. "Is he - Is he alive?"

"Yes, look, he's breathing." Nate shrugs his jacket off and wraps the boy in it. "We need to find Eliot and that woman. On top of that, we need to find this boy's parents."

"But _that's_ Eliot," Parker says, "and the witch is dead."

Sophie tugs on her arm. "Come along, dear. You're in shock."

"NO!" Parker shouts, pulling away. "Look, there's bodies here." And she runs off into a dark alcove and beckons at them to follow.

"Oh, yeah," Hardison says in the stunned silence that follows, and turns away to gag, "Yeah, those are bodies alright. Dead ones."

"Five kids," Parker says, frustrated, "Five adults went missing this month. I think they all got changed into kids and the witch killed them. She did a spell. I saw what she did to Eliot."

Nate's mouth is dry. "Parker," he starts, and can't go on. "We should go. Eliot and the…the woman obviously aren't here. Hardison, make an anonymous call to Bonano. Tell him there are five dead children at this address. They should be able to identify them."

"They're the homeless people," Parker protests to deaf ears. "Just smaller. And deader."

They scour the place for traces of their missing hitter. Parker silently pulls his t-shirt, jeans, and boxer shorts out of the pile of the clothing that had been worn by the missing street people. They find his com on the ground next to where the unconscious boy had lain.

_And still_, Parker thinks, _they don't get it. Normal people can be so stupid sometimes._

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AN: "Some _Twilight_-esque horror series" - Yes, that was _Supernatural_. I love it, but that doesn't mean I can't make fun of it. I already established in the last chapter of "Three Times" that this story operates in kind of the same universe as SPN, so since the show is in book form there, it's that way here, too. (By the way, Hardison is a Dean-boy. For some reason, reading about Sam makes his chest hurt in a bad way, not in a crushy way.*) Don't ask if _Buffy_ and _Angel_ exist here. That's a question that gets too confusing for me to work out at the moment. But if they do exist, Hardison is totally a fan.

*Is it meta to AN one's own ANs? Anyhow, that thing about Hardison was a reference to the fact that Aldis Hodge played Jake the Psykid on SPN before he starred on _Leverage_. Sam shot Jake in the chest. Hence the chest hurting thing…


	4. Name Your Price

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**Name Your Price**

The boy lies on Nate's couch, drowning in one of Nate's t-shirts. Parker had somehow convinced the team to at least wait until he wakes up and is able to tell them what his name is and where he lives and other normal people thingy stuff.

He suddenly tenses, blinks blue eyes open and jerks back from the grinning face floating in his vision.

"Eliot! Eliot's awake!"

Sophie sighs. "We told you, Parker, he's not Eliot. Stop scaring the poor child." She makes her way over to the boy. He has curly, dark blond hair that could use a wash and scabbed over knees, and he's staring at her with a look of extreme distrust.

"Hi there," she says in the kindest voice in her arsenal, "I'm Sophie. What's your name, sweetie?"

The boy scoots back away from her while sitting up, and narrows his eyes at her. "Eliot," he says after a long, calculating moment.

He'd heard Parker scream the name and probably thought that was the right answer to tell them. "What's your _real_ name?" She says it like it's a secret that just the two of them will know.

The boy looks uncertain. "Lindsey?"

She chuckles. "Is that your sister's name? Tell me _your_ name, handsome."

A flicker of mirth passes through the boy's eyes, and he says, "Abby," with a small smirk.

"Sophie," Nate calls her over to talk out of the mystery child's hearing. "He thinks it's a game," he whispers.

"Then you try," she fires back. "I'm terrible with children."

Nate sighs and walks over to the boy. He glances at Sophie, who raises her eyebrows at him, _Go on, show me how to do it, then, if you're the expert_.

"So," he clears his throat, "My name is Mr. Ford. I want you to tell me yours." It's a command, and he makes sure to tower over the boy and crosses his arms for good measure. If softness and sweetness won't work on him, then perhaps authority would. _Listen to your mother,_ says his entire attitude. It should be intimidating to any child.

The boy furrows his brow at Nate, calculating. Then his expression changes, and Nate thinks, _aha, here it is_, but the boy only says, "Viola." And there's that infuriating smug smirk again.

Sophie's laughing at him behind his back, and so are Parker and Hardison.

"Let me try," Parker chirps, and flounces down on the couch next to the kid. "Hey! I'm Parker. I'll give you money if you tell me your name."

At the mention of money, the boy's eyes light up, but he manages hide it well, considering his youth. "Eliot," he tells her solemnly. "M'name's Eliot."

Parker slaps the fifty dollar bill down into his hand and gloats at the others. "Ha! See? I told you."

"You just got gypped, Parker," Hardison says, shaking his head and chuckling at the others' unfruitful tries at getting a simple answer out of the kid. "Now let me try."

He crouches down next to the boy, who fixes bright blue eyes on the hacker. It's disconcerting, the way the kid looks at him, like he's looking _through_ him, _into_ him. "What's your last name, then, _Eliot?"_

"What'll ya give me?" the kid says in a thick Southern drawl. _Not _like Eliot's, though. Not even remotely. At all.

Hardison rummages in his pockets and comes up with a coin and a gum wrapper. "A penny?" He holds it up.

The boy crosses his arms and arches an eyebrow at him. Really weird, like a mini version of Eliot, and jeez, Parker can't be right. So it's just his subconscious playin' with him, that's all.

He reaches up onto the computer desk and pulls a bag of gummies into view. "How about candy?"

The lighting up of the kid's eyes and the manic grin are all he needs. "Here," he says, and fishes in the bag for a frog. "I'll give you this, then _you_ tell me _your_ name."

Hardison can see Nate in his peripherals shaking his head no. No, do not give the small child candy, unless you plan on taking responsibility for it afterward.

The boy takes the gummy frog and chews it gleefully. Once he finishes savoring the sugar-sweet goodness of it, he licks his grubby fingers free of the sour powder.

"So, uh, what's your name, buddy?"

"Eliot" is the answer he gets.

"I asked you for your last name. That was the deal, remember, little man?" he reminds the kid with a poke in the belly.

The boy glares at him. He does not like being poked. "You said, y'gonna give me candy, and then I tell you m'name. Ya didn't say which one I had to say when ya said that."

"Yeah, Hardison, that's what you said," Parker not-helps from next to the kid. "Can I have one, too?"

He can't really argue with that. So he says, "Okay, I'll give you another piece if you tell me your _last_ name. You really want this? Hmm?" He stuffs one into his mouth. "Mmmmmmm…"

The kid narrows his eyes at him. If looks could kill, he'd be dead right now.

"Mmmmmmm," Hardison says again, eating another piece of candy.

"Hardison, that's a little cruel, don't you think?" Sophie says.

"McDonald," the kid says suddenly. He grabs the entire bag out of Hardison's hand and digs in.

Hardison sputters. "Hey, that's mine. And McDonald's is a fast-food chain. What kinda fool do ya take me for? Huh?"

The kid grins, and _awww_, that's kind of adorable, with the white dusting of sugar all over his cherubic little face. Dimples, dawg, dimples.

"Fine," Hardison says, "You can keep that, 'kay? One search for Eliot McDonald comin' right up."

He doesn't expect to find anything, so it throws him when he does. "Guys? There's an Eliot McDonald, born July 21, 1974 in Canton, Oklahoma, twin Lindsey. But that can't be this little dude."

The boy's looking wide-eyed at the writing on the TV screens. He scrambles on the couch, knees tripping slightly over the long hem of Nate's shirt, and looks over the back of it at Hardison. "Hey, mister. How'd ya know my birthday? Is it magic?"

The kid is noticeably friendlier. Must be the sugar. Best friend-maker in the world. "No, it's called technology and the internet," he replies, and gets blinked at for his trouble.

"Parents?" Nate prompts.

"Allan and Elizabeth, both uh, d-e-a-d," Hardison spells.

"How old would you say grown-up Eliot is?" Parker asks thoughtfully.

"Uh, mid-to-late thirties," Nate replies automatically. He's watching the boy, who's staring a hole through the TV screens mounted on the wall. He obviously knows how to spell, and knows the meaning of _that_ word.

"2011 minus 1974 is 37," Parker announces.

Sophie's watching him, too. "That's nice, Parker. But what does that have to do with anything?"

"This is _our_ Eliot," Parker huffs. "Don't you see that? He has a twin named Lindsey and that's one of the names he said before. Plus, all the other _clues_."

Hardison stares at her and begins typing. "Hate to say it, but you're right. Abigail and Viola are his younger sisters. They both died in - oh shit, sorry, kid, Eliot, whoever you are! I'm sorry! Hey, come back!"

The boy's head had snapped up to stare in horror at Hardison, but once their gazes had locked, he'd bolted.

Off the couch, past Sophie and Nate, who rush to catch him, and nearly out the door. Nate grabs at him and grazes the edge of the oversized t-shirt, but he only gets a hard kick in the shin and another in a very vital spot for his efforts. The boy makes it to the door, and after fiddling with the lock for a couple of seconds, manages to throw it open and runs outside on short, sturdy legs.

Nate groans, cupping his hands around his more painful injury, and Sophie and Hardison wince in sympathy.

Looking around, they notice that Parker's gone, too, not out the door after the boy, but out the window.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

He's gasping for breath, but he keeps running. Somehow he knows that he should be able to run farther than this, faster than this, but he can't, and he has to stop. The tears, so hot and wet falling from his eyes, feel ice-cold on his cheeks, and he can't stop crying. A voice in his head, an older voice, says he hasn't cried in years, so just suck it up and _stop it_, but he can't. He sucks in a breath and it comes out as a sob.

He falls on his knees, but the huge, racking heaves keep coming, and no one can see him, he can't let anyone find him, so he shoves himself into a corner, a dark corner, pulls his knees in and the long shirt over his bare toes, and it's dark, and it's small, he can feel the space closing in, he has to get out, but he can't.

He can't get out, but he can't _be_ out, 'cause they'll find him, they'll find him and tell him Mama and Daddy and Abby and Vi are all dead, and maybe Linny, too, no, Linny's got to be alive, there's no Eliot without Linny, and he's stuck…

"Hey," a voice says, "I thought you didn't like small spaces."

He looks up. It's the blonde lady from the bad place. The one who believed him. She's nice, sorta. Kind of weird, but nice. He stares at her.

"Eliot? Come out of there," she coaxes.

He remembers, her name is Parker. What kind of a name is Parker? But he's not supposed to make fun of people's names unless it's his brother's, and no one's allowed to make fun of Linny without going through Eliot first 'cause he's older by twelve whole minutes.

"Eliot? I'm not gonna give you any more money. I already gave you fifty."

He still has the paper bill she'd given him clutched tight in his hand, but he realizes with a twinge of guilt that he'd left the bag of candy behind. He was going to share it with his brother and sister (the baby's too little for candy), but…but they're dead, right? No, he decides, they can't be dead. They can't be. He frowns and opens his hand.

The paper flutters in the breeze, but the dampness of his hand makes it stick to his skin. There's a big "50" in the corners of the greenish rectangle. 50, does that mean fifty whole dollars? But that's impossible. They don't make money that big. He once saw a twenty dollar bill that his daddy had. A long time ago, but he remembers. He knows what a ten dollar bill and a five, and a one dollar bill, and all the coins look like, because Mama trusts him and Linny to buy the groceries (they're already six-almost-seven and big boys), and he knows what food stamps look like, too. But he's never seen so much money at one time.

"Is this real?" he asks suspiciously.

The woman huffs and crouches to his level. "I wouldn't give you fake money, Eliot. I love money, but the fake stuff is an insult to real money. And I would never insult real money by giving fake money to someone I like."

He looks at her. He doesn't know her, but she seems to know him. Maybe she's crazy. She loves money, a voice inside him tells him, but she gave _him_ some of her own personal money, so that has to mean something.

"I know, I know, I'm crazy, and there's something wrong with me, right?" she says, rolling her eyes.

"Come on, Eliot."

She stands up and holds out her hand. He grabs on and lets her lift him to his feet.

"I'll steal you some ice cream."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

AN: No one's asked so far, but I wanted to note this: Lindsey said on _Angel_ that he came from a family of six ("there were six of us"), so I had the family be two parents, Eliot and Lindsey, and two younger sisters. Not six kids like most stories portray the McDonald family as having. It helps me keep track of all the kids and their names/ages/gender, okay?


	5. Like the Corners of My Mind

AN: Chapter title from the song "The Way We Were." (It has to do with memories, okay? And this song was in my playlist when I was writing this chapter, so it somehow wormed its way in as the title. Don't judge my horrible taste in music.)

(Fine. You want a Chris Kane Six Degrees to make it relevant to the show? Here ya go: "The Way We Were" was used in the film of the same name, but the song was also sung in the first movie version of "Fame," and Chris Kane's first acting gig was on one of the numerous crappy spin-offs of the film, "Fame LA." There. See? Connection. Moving on…)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Like the Corners of My Mind**

Nate has one of Eliot's ice packs in his lap when they get back.

Eliot's face is sticky from the chocolate-and-vanilla swirl with rainbow sprinkles in a waffle cone that Parker had stolen for him, and Parker's isn't much better (one scoop of peanut butter and one scoop of bubble gum-flavored ice cream in a chocolate-dipped cone).

"You got him ice cream?" Nate groans, throwing his head back against the back of the couch. "Candy _and_ ice cream? I'm not dealing with him later."

Sophie _hmms_. "Why don't we get you cleaned up, Eliot? You're all sticky! We don't want to be all sticky, do we?" she coos at him, bending down to his level and smiling brightly.

He gives her a strange look, not unlike the one he usually gives to Parker when she does something odd.

Parker rolls her eyes. "He's not _really_ a kid, Sophie. He kind of remembers being a grown up."

The others stare at the two of them. "What? What do you mean?"

Parker sighs. "He still talks like a kid, but he remembers…stuff."

"What kind of _stuff?_" Nate asks.

Parker looks down at the tiny hitter standing behind her, still holding her hand. "Stuff," she says sadly. He looks up at her and melts into her side, clutching the seam of her pant leg. "Bad stuff. Only a little, but enough."

She runs her hand through the tangles in his hair. "Sophie's right, though. Can't steal things if you have sticky, sticky fingers. Bathroom's this way. Come on." With that, they disappear down the hallway.

"Uh," Hardison says, "Isn't the saying the other way around? 'Sticky fingers' mean you're good at stealing?"

"She's more literal than that, Hardison. You know that," Sophie says, and flops gracefully down on the sofa, eliciting a moan from Nate. "Sorry."

"Wow. So that's really our Eliot?" Hardison asks.

"Looks like it," Sophie replies, seemingly in the process of trying to force herself to believe it herself.

"That's Eliot?"

"Yes," Nate answers. He shifts the ice pack and puts his bottle on top of it. Whiskey on the rocks. Lots and lots of whiskey.

"_That's_ Eliot?"

"Yes!" the three remaining adult team members shout.

Then they notice, Parker's back, and the little boy's nowhere around.

"Um, where's wee!Eliot?" Hardison asks meekly. He can wrap his head around this. It happens a lot in fan fiction, so why not in real life? Because it could totally happen. Right? Yes, it can. Because magic is real. Yes, it is.

Parker makes a face. "Why are you suddenly Scottish?"

"Irish," Nate corrects.

"'Wee' is used by both, and by the English and New Zealanders as well," Sophie points out. "Where's Eliot, Parker?"

"Bathroom, taking a bath. He was all sticky," she says. _Duh_.

Nate surges up, staggers a bit, and recovers. "You can't leave a five-year-old unsupervised in an unfamiliar bathtub. He could drown!" and limps to the bathroom.

When he bursts in, he's greeted with a full-fledged Eliot-glare from the small, indignant child very capably shampooing his own hair in the bathtub.

"Right, sorry, Eliot," he says and closes the door.

"See?" Parker says smugly. "I told you he remembers being a grown-up."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"What do we do?"

Nate pours himself another drink. He studiously ignores the look Sophie's giving him until she slides an empty glass towards him and says, "Forget two fingers. Give me four."

He obliges, and turns to Hardison, who's waiting for an answer. "We change him back into an adult."

Hardison explodes. "How? How the hell d'we turn him back, huh? Magic? I don't do magic. Do _you_ do magic? Not magic tricks, the real stuff? Do you, Sophie? No! Real magic's not real, that's why!"

"Hardison."

"No! No, no, no!" he shouts. "It's impossible! Magic belongs in movies and TV, and in books, and in video games! Not in real life! If this is a trick or something, I'm not that gullible!"

"_Hardison!"_

"What?"

Parker shushes Hardison again, this time with more force,_ "Shhhh!" _She shakes a finger in his face, making him go cross-eyed.

"_You'll wake him up!"_ Sophie shout-whispers at him.

"Oh. Sorry."

"_Shhhh!"_

"_Sorry,"_ he whispers this time. _"I can't believe he's actually sleeping with us around. He never does that."_

"It's the sugar," Nate says quietly, taking the whiskey glass with him over to the couch, where Eliot had finally fallen asleep after an afternoon of driving the three formerly relatively sane adults up the wall (with Parker as his very willing accomplice), stuffing his face with pizza at dinner, and a PG-rated movie to calm him down. "That much sugar in a body that small can be exhausting."

"_I'm tired," _Parker whispers.

"_I think Nate meant, Eliot's tired,"_ Hardison whispers back.

"_But I'm tired, too. Can't I be tired?"_ Parker says, peeking over the back of the couch at Eliot, who's now squirming and frowning. _"Is he having a nightmare? That's bad. I don't like nightmares."_

"Looks like," Nate says in his normal voice, getting a violent _"Shhh!"_ from Parker.

"It's alright. We should probably wake him up anyway," Sophie says, a little quieter, but not quite in a whisper. "It doesn't look like a very pleasant dream."

Eliot whimpers, and suddenly, begins to scream. It's not a child's shrill scream, but a hoarse, pain-filled scream of terror. His arms and legs flail in the air, punching and kicking at invisible attackers.

Parker shrinks back against Hardison, wide-eyed. _"Uh-oh, that's not good. Nate! Wake him up!"_

"_Yeah, Nate, wake him up!"_ Hardison repeats, putting his arms around the trembling Parker.

Nate doesn't want to. Well, he does, but not really. His genitals are still very sensitive from the one well-aimed kick the age-regressed hitter had gotten in, and his shin will be sporting a very impressive bruise tomorrow. Still, the sounds of the boy's anguish are too much. No one should be in that much pain, no one, especially not a five-to-six-year-old Eliot.

So he puts out a cautious hand and shakes Eliot's shoulder. "Eliot. Eliot! Wake up. It's just a dream, Eliot. Wake up!"

He gets a fist in the face in reply.

He holds his nose and glares at the sheepish-looking hacker and thief. "Ow."

Sophie gently pries his hands off of his face. "Let me see. Ooh, that looks…"

"Don'd day id," Nate interrupts.

"Nate, go clean yourself up," she says, "A bit of tissue and you'll be alright."

He looks down at Eliot, still in the throes of his nightmare. "Eliod, wague ub," he tries again, this time _very_ out of range of Eliot's flying appendages. "Eliod!"

With a gasp, the boy jackknifes up into a sitting position, chest heaving. He seems bewildered at where he's woken up and the people he sees clustered around him, but not quite close to him.

"Linny?" he says in a small voice, eyes darting around the room, "Where's m'brother?"

Sophie melts. "Oh, sweetheart," she says, sliding carefully down the sofa and putting her arms slowly around the trembling boy, "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Your brother's not here right now. But we are, right? And we're going to take good care of you. It's alright."

Eliot's chin shakes a little, looking up at Sophie. Then he relaxes and lets her hug him. "Shhh, darling, it's alright, it's alright," she croons.

Nate swallows heavily and takes another gulp of his drink. He can't really taste it, thanks to his stuffed-up, swelling, and bloody nose, but he can feel the burn of it going down his throat. It burns its way over the lump there, the Sam-sized lump that sometimes forms when he hears a child calling for his daddy, or when he's anywhere near a hospital, or thinks of Maggie.

The shaking's all but gone, but Eliot's face is still pressed into Sophie's silk shirt, now stained with tears and snot. "Shhhh," she says stroking his back and his hair, "It's alright. You've had a long day. It's no wonder you had a bad dream, hmm, darling?"

Eliot says something into Sophie's shoulder.

"What's that, sweetheart? What did you just say?"

"Bad man," Eliot says, shifting so that he's half on Sophie's lap, tucked between her arm and her chest. Big, shiny, blue eyes gaze up at Sophie. "Bad, bad man," he whispers, sounding haunted.

"Who, darling?"

"Yeah, who?" Parker wants to know, vaulting silently over the sofa back and crouching next to Eliot. "Who? Did he hurt you?" she demands. Her hands are clenched into fists, wanting to hit the bad man who hurt Eliot.

He looks down at her over Sophie's arm. "Me," he says simply. "Me, I'm bad. Bad man."

Hardison swears quietly behind them, and Parker's eyes widen. Nate pinches his nose and heads to the kitchen for a refill.

"No, sweetheart," Sophie says, trying not to cry, "No, you're not a bad man, Eliot. You're a good man, the best I know. Don't say that, darling, don't say that." And she pulls Eliot in for another hug. "Don't say that."

Eliot struggles weakly against her, not wanting to hurt her, but not willing to accept a hug he doesn't deserve. "No, did bad, did bad things, bad, bad, bad." He shakes his head violently. "Bad."

Parker furrows her forehead at him. "But Eliot," she starts, "remember what you told me on the mountain? It's that stuff that makes us _us_. 'And you can take it as a gift, or you can take it as a curse.' That's what you said. Do you think it's a curse, Eliot? Because I don't. I think…"

Her lip trembles, and she's trying very hard not to break down because she never cries either. "You guys are th-the best thing that's ever happened to me, even counting that time I stole the Crown Jewels in under four minutes." Sophie and Nate start at this unexpected revelation. "You're my family, you, and Nate, and Sophie, and Hardison, you're all my family, and, and I think that's a gift. _You're_ a gift. You're not bad. You're not bad, Eliot."

Eliot's stopped crying, and he's sitting up away from Sophie, gazing at Parker with serious eyes much too old for his present body. His short arms are wrapped around his middle, not in his usual angry crossed-arm pose, but instead making him look more vulnerable than they've ever seen him. "Thanks, Parker," he says quietly. "Thank you."

Parker grins at him and pokes him in the tummy. "You're welcome, Sparky."

Sophie smiles at Nate, a little relieved that Parker has managed to calm Eliot. She might not know much about people and how to act around them, but you can always count on Parker to repackage a caring word from a stolen one.

Hardison comes around the end of the couch and crouches next to Parker. "I think you're a gift, too, little man," he says with a sappy grin, putting his hand on Eliot's shoulder and giving it a firm, brotherly pat. He's not stupid enough to try and hug the tiny hitter.

Eliot scowls. "Bite me," he says, and roughly wipes all evidence of the tears from his face with a sleeve.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

AN: "Wee!_blank_" is a term used (usually in fan fiction) to indicate a younger version of a character, usually in a pre-series story/flashback or in a de-aging story. Hardison would know this, since there is no way he's not as geeky as I am in this particular area.


	6. Magic and Batman

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Magic and Batman**

"We have to figure out a way to change five-year-old Eliot back into adult Eliot," starts Nate at the breakfast table the next morning.

"I'm six!" Eliot interjects with a scowl. "Almost _seven_."

Sophie pats his hand. "Right. Of course you are, dear. More syrup?"

"Yes, please. Thank you, Sophie. My body's six, anyway. I'm thirty-seven. Shut up!" he shouts at the snickering hacker. "I can still beat your ass!"

"That threat would be a little scarier if it wasn't so…high," Hardison chuckles. "Little man."

Eliot lunges at the laughing now-older man, but Nate catches the back of his shirt and plops him back down in his seat. Eliot's mouth drops open in an astonished "O," the size of which is rivaled only by his wide-open eyes. "Hey! I'm not really a kid!"

"Then stop acting like it," Nate admonishes. "Now where was I?"

"How to change me back," Eliot intones with a pout. He fiddles with his fork. "I kin prolly help with that."

"How?"

"I know some people." He wrinkles his nose. "I think. It's a little fuzzy."

"Okay," Nate says, "What kind of people are they?" He thinks he's right to be slightly worried about the kind of people Eliot knows.

"One's m'brother. Lindsey." The grin's infectious. His front tooth is loose, and he's been wiggling it with his tongue all morning. "He knows _everything_ about magic. He's smart like that."

"How do we contact him?" asks Nate. _Magic is real, magic is real, magicisreal, magicisreal, magicisreal, my life sucks._

Eliot wrinkles his forehead. "Ummmm. I don't have his number in my phone. I just remember it."

"What's the number, Eliot?" Nate prompts, as the child hitter seems lost in thought.

"I dunno," he replies shakily. "I think I forgot. I'm sorry. But he knows all about magic cuz he used ta work for an evil law firm."

"Right, an evil law firm," Nate sighs. "Magic is real."

Parker perks up and turns her attention away from the pancakes they'd ordered from the diner around the corner instead of Eliot making them. "It is real. Right, Eliot? It's totally real. But I've never liked it. Too tricky."

"Yuh-huh," says Eliot with an emphatic nod. "I _told_ ya, Hardison! Didn't I _tell_ ya?"

"Yeah, you did. I can never tell if you're bluffin', man," Hardison replies, shaking his head comically and making the tiny hitter giggle with glee. "Hey, Nate, can I talk to you for a minute?" he continues with a serious expression. "Just a minute, guys. It's important."

Once they're several feet away from the others, he pulls a photo up on his phone. It's Eliot, but younger and more clean-cut, wearing an expensive suit. "It took me ages to find this, and whoever scrubbed him is _good_, but here's what I got. Lindsey McDonald was a big-shot lawyer for a law firm in LA, until he went missing in '01. Radio silence. And then he turns up again in '04, just out of the blue."

"And? Where is he now?" Nate doesn't quite understand why these dates are important.

"LA in '04," Hardison says in a low voice, "there's a death certificate for the guy. Autopsy says it was two rounds to the chest. Brother picked up the body, murder was never solved."

"Brother, meaning…"

"Eliot McDonald," Hardison finishes, glancing at the hitter, now gobbling up his pancakes with happy munching sounds punctuated with giggles whenever Parker pokes him in the arm and he pokes back, while Sophie shakes her head maternally at their antics.

Nate sighs. His life has suddenly gotten much, much worse. "He doesn't remember."

Hardison shrugs uncomfortably. "Guess not."

Nate nods, makes up his mind. "Okay. Whenever Eliot asks, say you're still looking for Lindsey. Don't tell him _this_, unless he remembers first."

"Gotcha."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sophie and Parker take Eliot shopping that day.

Since he _obviously_ can't stay at his own apartment by himself, it is decided for him that he should stay with Nate until he's back to his proper size again. There's a room at the end of the hallway where their offices are, where Eliot sometimes stays when he's too hurt or concussed to drive or spend the night alone. It's this room that they'll convert to make into a proper room for this smaller version of Eliot.

They begin with clothes. Somehow, that first day, between the ice cream and the bath, Parker had managed to procure a set of little boy's clothing for Eliot, complete with tiny underwear, socks, sneakers, and beanie.

However, since he only has one of everything, Sophie decides that he needs an entire wardrobe. "We don't know how long this will take, and it's not every day that you get to be young again!" she says joyfully, as she bustles them through the shops.

He turns his nose up at everything "precious" and "adorable" she picks out, until in a fit of exasperation, boredom, and not a little pity, Parker drives them to the local K-Mart over Sophie's vehement protests.

The objections immediately die down at the sight of Eliot's blinding grin when he sees the displays of superhero-related merchandise.

"Alright," Sophie says, resigned, "have it your way."

Three hours later and a few hundred dollars lighter, they roll out of the store with a full wardrobe of plaid, dark colors, and Batman, as well as a brand-new Batman bed set.

There's also a Batmobile toy that Eliot _vroom-vrooms_ all over the back seat of the car (while he'd fervently refused a car seat, Sophie had put her foot down at him driving or sitting in the front altogether).

He looks so happy and relaxed that Sophie wishes guiltily for a moment that he could stay like this forever. He's innocent now, washed clean of all the wear and care and blood that had accumulated over the long years.

Eliot giggles. "I'm gonna show Nate when we get home," he chirps cheerfully, driving his car along the inside of the car window.

"That's nice, dear. I really think he'd like that"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

AN: Here's another Public Private Message. For Touch of the Wind, this time:

Did you know that you have your PM feature disabled? I can't reply to your reviews! I just wanted to say thanks for reading, reviewing, and all your support.


	7. Lindsey

AN: Finally, Lindsey! And if I scared you by saying that he's dead, sorry. P.S. There's a reason for the way he's acting, okay? Just to ward off any possible complaints about un-likability.

Updating this story because it's Thanksgiving over here in the States (and I need a pick-me-up - posting a new chappie is always an ego-booster!). Happy Turkey Day, y'all! (Isn't it strange how I'm American, yet I've never actually heard anyone from my area say "y'all"? Regional dialects are, like, _totally_ funny. Seriously. [Guess where I'm from, haha! The ditz kind of gave it away, huh? Totally.])

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Lindsey**

He's no stranger to lying low, and it's surprisingly easy to have something resembling a life while still being in a self-imposed witness protection program. He trusts the hundreds of small spells he has linked to the web to alert him whenever someone searches for anything having to do with him.

He spends his days doing a little specialized retrieving and going on the occasional monster-slaying hunt to keep in practice. But not too many, or else he'll attract unwanted attention. Most of the time, he compiles data and sends the files to certain hunters "anonymously."

These days, the most hits he gets from his magic markers _(no, not colored pens, El, stop acting more stupid than you really are; you're not fooling anybody) _he gets are for his brother. He's gotten on some pretty powerful peoples' bad sides lately, but it's the sort of thing that Lindsey knows Eliot can handle on his own, especially since he's got his team (and again, how the hell did he suddenly become a team player?) helping him deal with them.

When red flags start waving all over the place one night and continue into the morning, he gets a little anxious. It's that hacker on El's team, so it's not terribly worrying, but when he sees the sort of things the guy's looking at, he starts thinking that maybe he ought to give his brother a call.

He sits around on his ass for a whole day, wondering if he should, or shouldn't, hand itching to pick that phone up. He ultimately decides that it wouldn't hurt to just check up on Eliot, get just a glimpse, and sneak away if there's nothing visibly wrong with him.

Because if there is, he's gonna kill his twin for not calling.

He takes a flight out to Boston, using a bit of glamour to make sure that he's not recognizable to anyone who's looking for either Lindsey McDonald or Eliot Spencer (or their multiple aliases), and takes three cabs out to the bar over which the Leverage team has reestablished their offices.

(Memo to self: What kind of allegedly recovering alcoholic lives over a bar? How very…Catholic.)

There, he sees something that would have surprised him about fifteen years ago, back when he was a fresh-faced law student, but now only serves to make him duck into an alley and laugh his friggin' ass off. And then he laughs again, just for the hell of it.

Damn, he'd really needed that laugh.

Ford, Devereaux, Hardison, and Parker emerge from the building, all walking slower than adults normally would, in order to accommodate the much shorter legs of a very familiar figure, one Lindsey hasn't seen in over thirty years: his formerly big brother Eliot, now a much _littler_ twin than God ever intended Lindsey to have.

It's friggin' hilarious.

He has to pop back into that alley for another laugh after which his stomach gets really, _really_ sore.

Heh. Eliot. Tiny. Midget. _Funny_.

Still, they're brothers, and there's no way Eliot's relatively normal team can figure out to turn him back without some external help, and why not someone who already knows the intricate workings of such powerful magic?

So that night, he waits for the two younger adult members of Eliot's team to leave (Devereaux remains, which is not an entirely unpredicted development) and for the lights in Ford's apartment to go out. When he thinks they're probably asleep, he breaks in as quietly as he can. Once inside, he doesn't know which door is his brother's, but he's lucky on the third try. It's a small bedroom, most likely a guest room in its original function, but right now, there's evidence of its inhabitance by a small boy.

Said boy is tucked neatly into the bed, sleep-tousled head peeking out over the Batman bedcover, and chubby arm wedged under a round cheek.

Lindsey can't help but snort. Batman. They'd never had cartoon bed sheets growing up (too expensive), but he doesn't doubt that an age-regressed Eliot would go for Batman over Superman (and definitely bypass that inane laughing sponge character).

The small body sleeping under Batman's cartoon glower sighs and shifts in its sleep. For some reason he can't fathom, Lindsey holds his breath, not wanting to wake him. The boy is so _small_ and vulnerable, which are not words he normally equates with Eliot. Catching himself, he shakes his head and reaches out to his brother.

"Hey, El. Wake up," he whispers.

He keeps tense, ready to dodge a punch or a chokehold if he needs to. Rousing Eliot when he's sleeping has never been a smart thing to do ever since he'd joined the military. Paranoid bastard. Of course, Lindsey doesn't know what that makes _him_, and it's good that Eliot's so cautious, but still. Being decked for waking a guy up is never a pleasant experience.

Sleep-bleared eyes blink open. Recognition dawns as soon as they focus on his face. "Linny? What're you doin' here?" Dimples. He doesn't remember dimples, but they must have been there back then, too.

"Oh, good, you remember," he replies distractedly, thinking of other age-regression spells gone wrong. "Let's go."

Eliot sits up, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "Where're we goin'?"

"I'll tell you later. Come on, before they wake up."

Just then, the door opens, and the light flickers on. "Too late," Ford says. Then, getting a good look at his intruder, he needs to take a second to recover from the shock of either seeing Eliot's twin in the flesh, or seeing Eliot's _dead _twin in the flesh before he continues, "Lindsey McDonald, I presume?" He lets the gun down.

Lindsey straightens (while covertly putting away the blade he'd pulled out on instinct) and faces the former insurance agent, now criminal mastermind.

"Guilty as charged, Mr. Ford," he says pleasantly, but makes sure to add in a little of the menace that should tell a smart man that he's not a nice as he seems.

"Rumors of your death seem to have been greatly exaggerated," Ford says. Hmm, so it was the latter fact (that someone who should be dead is walking around very much alive) that had shocked him. Fast recovery time, then. A dangerous man.

Lindsey smiles tightly. Behind him, Eliot shifts uneasily, and twists the bedcover worriedly in his small hands. "Obviously. It's not easy to stay dead nowadays, is it Miss Devereaux?" he asks pointedly. He knows the grifter is there, right beyond his line of sight. He's proved correct when Sophie Devereaux appears, wearing a very sexy silky robe.

He raises an eyebrow and rakes his eyes appreciatively down her body. It's not that she interests him in that way, _per se_; it's just the principle of it. Ford bristles, but Devereaux merely smiles.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, giving the illusion that she is wearing perfectly normal clothing, and that there is no reason for Lindsey to be looking at her in such a manner.

"I'm getting my brother and leaving," he says brusquely, wanting to be on their way, away from these people who seem to have thieved their way into his brother's heart. "Thank you for your hospitality, but I can take care of this."

Then, Ford does something Lindsey wasn't expecting; he looks down, meeting the small boy's eyes. "Eliot?"

Eliot frowns, and glances between Lindsey and the other two. "He _is_ my brother," he says slowly.

"Good. Then that's settled." Lindsey puts his hand on Eliot's shoulder. "Let's go, El. Put your shoes on."

Eliot stops, looking worried. "Wait, Linny. Can you really break the spell?"

Lindsey's eyebrows shoot up. Seriously? After all these years, he's doubting him now? These people have seriously done something to his brother. "All I have to do is find the spellcaster and get 'em to undo it. I have some old favors I can call in if they won't do it just by me asking nicely," he says, picking a tiny sneaker up in his hand to help his brother get his shoes on, so they can _get out of here._

"The witch that did it is dead."

Eliot looks…scared. But that's bullshit; Eliot doesn't do scared. Lindsey does scared (and he's allowed to, because he's the younger brother), but never Eliot. Lindsey blinks. "Well crap," he says reflexively, "Then you're screwed."

The customary scowl, although in miniature, comes back to Eliot's face. "Gee, thanks," he growls, "Why don't you say it blunter?" That's more like it.

Ford clears his throat. "What do you mean, he's screwed?"

Lindsey looks at him again, reevaluates his usefulness. "Without the witch," he explains, "_I_ have to cast the reversal spell, and in order to do that, I need to know exactly what the original ritual and incantations were so I can find the proper spell to cast. It'll be difficult, but I can do it."

Nathan Ford nods slowly. "We might be able to help you there," he says. Then he turns and walks out of the room.

Lindsey stares after the man, perplexed by his behavior.

Eliot reaches up and pats his arm. "It's not you, Linny. He does that to ev'rybody. C'mon! You gotta meet the team!"

And then he's being led out of the Batman-themed room and out into the hallway by the hand. Eliot, who hasn't held hands with him since…well, forever and a decade, has his evil right hand in a childish grip, in a way that dusts off long-forgotten memories of dimpled smiles, scabby knees, and bright-eyed trust.

Lindsey wonders vaguely how in the world his multiverse has managed to turn itself upside down without him even realizing it.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

><p>AN: Eliot makes the same "How Catholic" remark in the Season 2 opener about Nate living over a bar. Flashback!<p>

"Multiverse" is a reference to the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett. Lindsey makes the allusion because he's totally been to that dimension as a representative of Wolfram and Hart to their branch in Ankh-Morpork (Morcombe, Slant & Honeyplace, of course). If you haven't read any of the books, do so now. They're genius.

Also, for those who are a little confused by the extent of Lindsey's computer abilities, I want to clarify that he is fully capable of using one for normal office functions, having been a(n evil) lawyer, as well as for hacking into Wolfram and Hart-level security. (See evidence in the Evil Hand episode. Angel breaking the door down was an Eliot-esque solution to the problem, while Lindsey's was quite Hardisonian. That may be why Eliot and Hardison developed such a brotherly-type relationship so quickly. I don't know what happened with Lindsey and Angel. If one was a girl or showed slashy tendencies, I'd say it was sexual tension, but since both are male and I never noticed homosexual tendencies, I'm going to go with, "Get off of the playground, boys! Time out corner now.")

* * *

><p>Ooh! Lookie here, an anon review. You all know what happens when someone leaves an anon review with enough content to reply to…(If you don't, I previously nagged one wonderfully funny lady into getting an account):<p>

To Jen:

Thank you for loving my stories so much that you left me a lovely little review! Hmm, a hug from Lindsey, huh? They're not exactly "huggy" to begin with, but there is some…physical contact of the hug-_like_ kind involved in the next part of their reunion. Kind of. Maybe a little more violent than hugs usually get, but what the hey, they're guys and squabbly siblings on top of that. I hope my non-dead Lindsey met everyone's approval.


	8. Oh, Brother

AN: Slightly references events from one-shots #1, 5, and 6 from "Three Times."

This one's kind of long, but I couldn't find a good cut-off point. So yeah…Happy birthday, someone!

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**Oh, Brother**

Parker, the blond thief (who is, according all accounts Lindsey has gathered on her and the one time he almost met her, completely insane), gets into his personal space and gives him a curious sniff when she gets to Nate Ford's apartment (through the window, by the way, not via the air ducts as he'd predicted). Eliot tells him that it's a sign of mild approval. But don't push it, because it can turn into disapproval pretty fast, and you _don't_ want Parker to _not _like you.

Alec Hardison, the hacker, gapes openly at him, stammering about dead people and autopsies and pictures, and _those weren't doctored, man, they totally opened you up and took pictures, even one of that burrito you ate before ya y'know, _died.

Lindsey just smiles and fingers the scars where the bullets had hit his chest eight years ago. He had been expecting Angel to try to kill him, so he'd taken care to cast a protection spell and had drunk a bottle of holy water before the big fight. He hadn't been expecting Lorne to be the one behind the gun, though. No, not Lorne, of all people.

But it had happened, and he'd set into motion the plan he'd set up just in case. Impersonating one's twin is exceptionally easy when picking up one's own body, especially when one actually has a real twin, and the body is in fact another that has been dead (from causes _not_ Lindsey's fault) a little longer and has a glamour spell cast over it to look like him to the minutest detail.

He also made sure to call Eliot and tell him that he's very much alive, thank you very much, so don't go into Inigo Montoya mode. He didn't tell him about the bullets being real. Still, once big brother saw the scars, he'd known anyway, and had gotten pissed, and then there was pacing and growling and threatening to disembowel singing green demons. The usual.

The hacker whimpers a little before getting his laptop set up and pulling up the files that Nate says Lindsey has to see and hear. Every once in a while, he sends a sidelong glance at Lindsey, as if to make sure he's not a brain-eating zombie or other undead creature of the night.

Eliot watches his brother look through the surveillance photos of the witch and listen to the audio his earbud had recorded that day he'd turned into a little kid with the same intense expression that he has come to equate to "Lindsey thinking complicated thoughts," and which usually means that someone is going to be nursing some kind of physical or emotional trauma very, very soon. If they're still alive afterward, anyway.

It's comforting. He would never, in a million years, tell Lindsey that, because he has a big enough head already, but it somehow feels _safer_ with him here. Like, before, things had gotten out of hand with this magic stuff, and now, with him here, Eliot can sort of relax, because Lindsey _knows_ this kind of stuff, knows this like Eliot knows fighting.

And the thing about it is, it's not about owing and being owed; when Lindsey had needed weapons training, it was Eliot he'd come to for help, knowing that there would be no questions asked, and no back-stabbing, either. There's something inherently _safe_ about their connection, the bond of twinship between them, a link that Eliot's gut calls safe before he even knows who it is.

Lindsey may be safe, but that doesn't mean he can't be infuriating at the same time. Because annoying, his little brother surely is, as Yoda would put it (and since when has Eliot quoted _Star Wars_? Dammit, Hardison!). Plus, he needs to work on his people skills. Like say, for example, the Skill of Playing Well With Others.

"This is surprisingly good scotch, considering how young it is," Lindsey drawls, oozing nonchalance _(pretending to be stuck-up_, Eliot's mind provides), swirling his glass and taking a small sip, once he's done listening to the audio clip. "Mind if I ask the name of your supplier?" He's leaning against the back of his chair, appearing to be perfectly relaxed.

Eliot knows that he's not, and he can see that Nate and Sophie have quickly come to this realization as well. Hardison is too busy fiddling with his computer to notice, and Parker's…well, Parker. It's hard to tell with her.

"Get to the friggin' point, Linds," Eliot growls as low as he can. God, this squeaky little kid voice is doing nothing for his blood pressure.

As always, Lindsey knows exactly what he's thinking. "Simmer down, pee-wee, or you'll grow up with hypertension." That smirk. He hates that smirk. No matter that it's the same smirk Eliot himself has whenever he one-ups Lindsey, it irks him all the same.

So he kicks him. He can't help it; his brother has always brought out the childishness in him, and this tiny body, with its tiny functions and tiny little kid impulses, isn't helping.

Lindsey jerks and grimaces. He doesn't _have_ to jump quite so high, nor does he have to wince so hard, but he does, anyway. Damn drama queen.

"Don't kick your brother, Eliot," Sophie says in that maddeningly _maternal_ voice she's taken to using the last couple of days.

_Ha!_ says the triumphant look Lindsey shoots him. _Gotcha in trouble._

_Dick,_ Eliot thinks back at him.

"Lindsey," Sophie says, turning his attention to her, "What can you tell us about this witch's spell?" She puts her hand on the one of Lindsey's closest to her, which happens to be his right. Eliot thinks that maybe he should warn her about how touchy his brother is about that particular hand, but thinks, then again, maybe this isn't the time for that conversation. "Your brother has told us that you know quite a lot about this sort of thing. And we know practically nothing about it. You _are_ the expert."

Lindsey looks pointedly at the hand Sophie has on his until she removes it in a fluid motion that's supposed to look natural. "I can tell you one thing," he says, "Eliot's not as screwed as I initially thought, but he's still in pretty deep shit, as it is."

"Technical terms?" Nate says sardonically.

Lindsey smiles. "Of course." He stands up and walks over to the monitors, glass in his hand. Eliot recognizes the walk; it's Lindsey's "lawyer walk of exposition." He can't help the small snort that comes out of him.

"This is Agnes Nutt," Lindsey says, shooting an irritated glance at Eliot, "or 'was,' I should say. I assume you set her on fire?" he asks the room in general.

"Yup!" says Parker, who's listening attentively, like an eager student to a teacher. "That was me. I threw a candle at her. And then she went, _'Fwoomp!'"_ She gestures the size of the resulting flames with her hands.

Lindsey nods, adding a little dramatic pause to his pacing, "Those old witches go up like tinder, don't they? L. Frank Baum got it wrong; witches aren't allergic to water and little terrier dogs. It's fire that they fear. They use it in their rituals, but they dread it all the same. Salt, silver, and iron. Oh, and not to mention, holy water. You can never go wrong with holy water."

"What about the spell?" Nate wants to know. Ha! It's not fun being at the other end of the I-know-everything-and-you-don't act, is it, Nate?

"It's ancient Dauruvian," Lindsey explains. "Basically, it's a simple youth spell. Agnes wasn't a very powerful witch, as old as she was, quite harmless, actually."

"She killed people!" Eliot points out. "Seven every full moon. That's not harmless."

Lindsey raises his eyebrows. "She's been doing this for centuries, possibly longer. _Ab initio mundi._ No one's missed any of her victims until now. It's part of the equilibrium of the ecosystem, as far as people like her are concerned. They're weeding out the dandelions."

"And you, what do you think, Lindsey?" Sophie wants to know. "Are the homeless dandelions?"

He levels an unreadable look at her. "What does it matter what I think?" he scoffs. "I used to defend people like them, so maybe I think like they do. I'm not a good guy."

"That's what they all say," she says, looking at Eliot, who _doesn't_ return her gaze.

"Sure. Black knight, white hat, right?" Lindsey nods at Eliot. "His hat's more white than grey nowadays. Mine's still a nice dark charcoal or slate shade. Don't mistake me for him; I'm not my brother."

"Linny, get to the friggin' point!" Stupid lawyers who talk in tangents and circles.

His brother rolls his eyes at him, but goes on, "I'll have to research some other spells to redesign this one in order for it to work, now that Agnes is dead. It might take a couple of months."

"Months?" Eliot whines. He can't help it.

"I'm a lawyer, not a warlock or some miracle worker," Lindsey says defensively. "Patience is a virtue, Mama always said."

"You said you'd fix it!" Eliot says, up on his knees on the chair now because he doesn't like looking up at people.

"Hey, maybe I can help," Hardison interrupts, wary of the increased tension in the room, "Y'know, with the research and all."

"Not everything is online, Hardison," Lindsey sniffs into his scotch, "You don't have the qualifications for this kind of search. Sorry, this is something I have to do alone."

Eliot doesn't like anyone that's not him picking on Hardison. The thought that this is a lot like how he doesn't like anyone that's not him picking on Lindsey crosses his mind, but he doesn't dwell on it for very long. "Don't be patr- patro- _stuck up_, Linny! He's only trying to help!"

"So'm I, Eliot!" Lindsey shouts back. "I'm not being _patronizing._ I told you I'd take care of this. And I will."

"You don't know that! _You_ said I'm screwed!" Eliot can feel his face glowing bright red now, and he doesn't know why he's this level of upset, but he is, and goddamn it, he's gonna take it out on his brother. "You're a liar, Linny! You lie alla time, you don't even know what the truth is anymore!"

The fight's not about the problem at hand anymore; it's about something else, it's about everything else, it's about nothing.

"At least I know when I'm lying to myself!" Lindsey snarls, "Because according to you, that's all the damn time!"

"At least, at least…I still have the hand I was born with, Captain Hook!" Eliot screams, then stills, eyes wide open, and anger ebbing so fast it's just a memory. He doesn't even know where _that_ had come from. One moment, he was just mad, then the next, he was trying to hurt his brother any way he could. And that, that _hurt_. He knows how much it stings, as if it had been his own hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, clapping his hands over his mouth, horrified that he'd just said what he had. "I didn't mean it…I'm sorry."

The team's looking at the two of them, curious, but not stupid enough to butt in. Eliot feels their eyes lingering, burning, on Lindsey's hand, the one that had replaced the gaping nothingness where the original had been cut off.

"_In the line of duty,"_ his brother had said at the time and scoffed darkly, holding forlornly onto his empty wrist. _"Least I got the promotion. Corner office with a view. Can't sign the papers until I learn how to write again, though."_ And then he'd laughed, the hollow sound echoing around his classy apartment. Eliot remembers how his own wrist had ached that night, as if it had been his hand that had been taken.

Lindsey flexes the hand, his own anger kicked back down to a cold, sharp, crystal calm. And then he laughs, and that's even worse than if he'd started yelling at Eliot because it sounds like how it had when he'd laughed before, when he'd lost his hand. "Y'know what? I don't have to take this. You don't want my help, fine. I'm outta here. You can stay a kid for all I care, Peter Pan."

And then he turns and leaves, but Eliot can't let that happen, not without making things better again, because while he can't fix it completely, can't take it back ever again, he can make it better, he can try. So he rushes after him.

"Linny," he says, grabbing on for all he's worth, "Linny, don't go. I'm sorry."

They stare at each other for what seems like forever, silent words passing between them, just like they used to. Their secret language that no one but them understands, that no one but them has ever understood.

"I'm _sorry_. I didn't mean it. It just came out."

Lindsey's shoulders drop, and he looks _really_ hard at Eliot. "You're really a kid, aren't you, El?" There's sympathy in his eyes, and a certain sadness as well, as if he's just realizing that their _twinness_ has changed.

Eliot crosses his arms. "No."

"Sometimes," Hardison cuts in, thinking that it's probably safe to do so now. "Mostly when he gets upset. That's pretty much every time you tell him he can't do something grown ups can do."

Eliot glares at the hacker. _Not helping. _"I'm right here, you know."

Lindsey stares at Eliot, assessing him, testing him. Seeing the barely contained yawn that creeps up on Eliot from out of nowhere, he sighs and bends down, saying, "Okay, bedtime for you, squirt." He scoops him up in his arms, eliciting a startled yelp. None of the team has dared to try and pick him up before this, respecting his rights as an _adult._

Eliot squirms, trying to get away, but not quite managing it. "Not really a kid, Linny," he whines. "Lemme go!"

Lindsey snorts. "Yeah, sure. Tell that to your five-year-old body."

"I'm six!" The indignant shout comes unheeded to his lips, and damn, he hates having a little kid's sleeping habits.

"Right," comes Lindsey's voice soothingly over his hair, "And your six-year-old body is tired, so you're goin' to bed."

Eliot lets his head fall forward onto his brother's shoulder. "Don' hafta carry me," he protests, but puts his arms around Lindsey's neck anyway. He _doesn't_ nuzzle the crook of his neck, though. He doesn't. He's just tired, that's all.

There's a warm hand rubbing circles on his back, and it's very distracting, very _comforting_. "You ain't heavy. You're my brother." Then the big jerk says, laughing slightly, "My _little_ brother," so Eliot rears back and hits him in the shoulder. "Ow! Don't punch the guy carryin' you. Ya _want_ me to drop ya?"

Eliot wriggles in Lindsey's arms, getting comfortable. "I'm sorry. About the hand thing."

He can feel the shrug before Lindsey answers. "Don't worry about it. Just remember," he whispers into Eliot's ear, "I know all your secrets. And then some."

Eliot shakes his head. "Uh-uh. Don't." The silence that follows doesn't sound very good. "Linny, don't tell them a thing! I swear…"

Lindsey chuckles. "You'll what? You'll hit me with your little miniature fists? Kick me in the shins? Head-butt me in the balls?"

He laughs again, seeing Eliot's scowl. Eliot frowns even more, but inside, he feels glad that they're okay again. He hates fighting with his brother.

As soon as he thinks that, he's being dumped back into his bed (with the awesome Batman bed sheets that they would never have been able to afford back when they were kids) and the covers are being tucked around him, and it's getting really, really hard to keep his eyes open, and then, right when he thinks he's asleep, there's a soft touch on his forehead that feels just like the way Mama 'n Daddy used to kiss them goodnight, and then he drifts away to "G'night, bro."

And everything's okay again. Mostly.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

><p>AN: "Inigo Montoya mode" refers to the single-minded swashbuckler in <em>The Princess Bride<em> whose signature line is, "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." All with an awesome Spanish accent. Don't read the book; the movie is much better (and I rarely say that about books-to-movies). Because dude. Columbo (Peter Falk) as Grandpa. That's right. And one more thing…(That's a reference to Columbo, btw.)

Agnes Nutt - A cross between Agnes Nitt and Agnes Nutter, two Terry Pratchett creations (one in collaboration with Neil Gaiman) who are witches. Sort of. Okay, when I was trying to think of a name for a witch, I thought, "Agnes!" (And then I went, "*facepalm*.") So that's why her name is Agnes.

Latin translation because once you're a stuck-up lawyer, it's hard to get rid of some habits, and also because people liked that Lindsey used Latin in the other story:

"_Ab initio mundi"_ = "from the beginning of the world"


	9. A Different Kind of Scary

AN: References events from "Three Times," more specifically, the third and last one-shots of that story. Again, it's not necessary to read that story in order to understand.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**A Different Kind of Scary**

"Cranky little guy when he's tired, ain't he?" comments Lindsey when he gets back to the living room.

Eliot's team is staring at him like he's some kind of new demon species. Or, as the case may be with these people ("civilians" in the world of the supernatural), like he's a demon, or a ghost, or any number of unfamiliar, unnatural things.

Parker looks ready to poke him. Or stab him, Lindsey can't tell which. This irritates him. He can usually tell when someone's about to do something, or say something. This skill has saved his life more than once.

"What?" he growls.

Apparently, that's familiar enough that Parker blurts out, "That's not your hand?" Hardison immediately shushes her, but the damage is already done.

"No," Lindsey replies shortly, and tugs his sleeve down to cover the thin scar on his wrist, "It's not." End of story.

He grabs his jacket off of the chair he'd draped it over. "Since dragging Eliot on a universe-wide tour of the mustiest libraries ever founded would be unnecessary torture for the both of us, I'm leaving him here with the four of you. You're not obligated to babysit, so if you get tired of his tantrums, call me and I'll come pick him up."

He rattles off a phone number but stops Hardison from entering it into his phone. "For safety reasons," he explains. "Keep it in your head. Even that's not completely secure, but it's better than mere machines, for the most part."

"Damn, not even Eliot's as paranoid as you are, man," the hacker marvels, "and he is one paranoid bastard."

Lindsey shrugs. "Yeah, well, we've both earned the right to be suspicious. _Abundans cautela non nocet_, I always say. Oh, and by the way, Hardison, don't keep searching for me online. It sets off all kindsa alarms on my system and they're a bitch to turn off, so don't look."

Hardison's jaw drops. "You tracked me? You? Twin brother of Mr. What's-A-Search-Engine-And-How-Do-You-Connect-It-To-The-Car?"

Lindsey snorts. Eliot's dumb muscle act is very thorough, as evidenced by the hacker's comment. "Let's just say that technology boosted by magic is very effective. You ought to look into it. Something tells me you'd be terrifyingly good at it," he says and turns to go.

He stops at the door. "Take care of my brother. Otherwise," his mouth curves into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "well, simply put, my moral center doesn't bother me as much as his does."

He lets the threat hang in the air as he makes his exit.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

They heave a huge collective sigh once the door clicks shut behind Lindsey McDonald.

"I will say this for him: He does have a kind of dramatic flair that his brother doesn't," Sophie says slowly.

"Whew. He scary, man," Hardison says. "I want our Eliot back. At least we know his kind of scary. It's a straightforward kinda scary, know what I mean? We know where we stand with him. That guy? He's a different kinda scary."

"You already said that, Hardison," Nate observes, sipping his whiskey.

Hardison gestures wildly with his hands. "Yeah, well, it deserves a second mention. He _is_ scary."

"I wonder," Sophie muses, having been thinking over something to herself during Hardison's rant, "is that how the world perceives Eliot when _he's_ defending _us_?"

They ponder that for a moment.

Parker chews thoughtfully on one of Hardison's gummy frogs (stolen out of his pocket, of course). "I think I almost met him once."

"When? And how do you _almost_ meet someone?"

"After that job at the carnival, I went to see if Eliot would make me food because I was hungry, but he was talking to himself, and then he told me to get out of his air vents and out of his house. Only it's really an apartment, and I told him so. But he said to get out." She shrugs. "So I did. I guess he wasn't talking to himself. He was talking to Fake Eliot," she nods, finally having figured it all out. "At least he wasn't having sex; it always takes him _forever_ to finish," she says, prompting a room-wide outburst of disgusted responses.

Nate sighs, rubs his head, and watches the world blur through the bottom of his glass.

Hardison makes a face. "You watch him having sex? You're like River Tam, ya know that? What do you watch _me_ do? Do you- Wait, why would you think he was talking to himself?"

Parker shrugs. "It's Eliot."

Point. Eliot does growl a lot and say things under his breath a lot, usually dire threats and the occasional unheeded bit of sarcasm directed at his team members. But he's not actually _insane_. For the most part.

"Hey. Why didn't Fake Eliot like Sophie?" Parker asks, as if she's just thought of it.

Hardison turns to see what the grifter thinks of the question, since even Parker had noticed Lindsey's obvious dislike for her. Then he looks around, and asks the room, "Where'd she go?"

The other two shrug, having seen Sophie slip out the door a minute before.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

She rides down to the lobby of the building in the elevator, and hopes that Lindsey McDonald isn't a violent man, or if he is, that he has at least as much self-control as his twin. Watching the two of them interact had been enlightening, and told her much about the nature of their relationship; very close, in a way that Eliot will never be with the team, although they have come to be like a slightly dysfunctional family unit over the years.

No, the McDonalds' bond has its root at the very moment their conception, and has continued strong throughout the course of their lives. And it is obvious that anyone who hurts Eliot gets Lindsey instead, and anyone who hurts Lindsey has to deal with Eliot.

She wonders how she has managed to get on Lindsey's bad side without even having ever met the man. She's sure it has something to do with Eliot, but doesn't quite know how.

"Miss Devereaux." The honey-smooth drawl greets her when the elevator doors slide open.

"Sophie, please," she replies, just as silkily. "You don't like me, Lindsey," she continues, getting straight to the point.

He smiles. Sophie almost wishes for the feral smile Eliot would normally give in this situation. Lindsey's smile is serpentine, sly as a snake, and deadly as its venom. "No, I do not."

"May I ask why?" she queries, walking up close to him. _I'm not scared of you._

He sees right through her act, and she knows it, but she keeps it up anyway.

After a long, probing pause, during which Sophie is sure he can hear her heart's rapid pounding, Lindsey finally answers. "You conned my brother right when he was finally getting used to being on a team," he says, confirming her guess. "He used to work alone, and never trusted _anyone_. There is one thing you have to know about him: He doesn't trust very easily, and when he does give that to you, you've had to earn it _and_ his respect."

He stops and shakes his head, his mouth in a tight, angry line. "What you did," he ploughs on mercilessly when she opens her mouth to say something, to defend herself, to apologize, _something_, "you threw it all right back in his face, basically told him that you didn't care that he busted his ass for you every single day, took literal _hits_ for you, and that you didn't care if he lived or died. That's not something you do to someone who _trusts_ you to have his back. That's not what you do to a friend. And then, somehow, for some reason, he still works with you, even after that. He still thinks of you as a friend, as _family._"

Sophie gets the feeling that the only reason she's alive right now is because Eliot had stopped Lindsey from getting even. She shudders (on the inside) as the thought that the McDonalds' version of retribution might be worse than Nate's crosses her mind.

"That's enough."

The voice is quiet, and not menacing at all, but it gets its bearer's message across.

They turn to the stairwell, where Eliot's standing, face red, and panting air like he'd run all the way down the stairs from Nate's, not wanting to wait for the elevator to come back up.

"She betrayed you," Lindsey snarls, pointing a finger at her. He huffs and shakes back his hair, which is slightly shorter than Eliot's as an adult's. "What are you doing down here anyway? You're supposed to be in bed."

Eliot shifts a little, like a small child needing to…Oh. "I had to pee," he says, looking embarrassed. He shakes it off. "They told me Sophie followed you out, so I figured that was bad news. Anyway, all that was years ago. And don't tell me you've never betrayed anyone," he says in an accusatory tone.

"That's different," Lindsey grimaces. "Everyone who knows me knows that I'm a scumbag," he laughs sharply, "I'm a dick, and_ I_ know it. No one trusts me, and I don't trust anyone."

"I trust you. You trust me." Eliot looks at him, his belief in what he's saying shining in his face in a way that he never would have allowed in front of Sophie as an adult.

Lindsey visibly softens. "And no one else. You're my brother. Besides, you're a shitty liar."

Eliot makes a face. "We're brothers. That's exactly why I'm trusting you to make this right. And I need you to trust me when I say Sophie's alright." He looks at Sophie and gives her a small smile. "She will never betray me, or the team, ever again. She's learned that it doesn't go over too well to con your own team." He sighs. "And so have I."

Lindsey frowns. "What do you mean?" Eliot doesn't backstab people. It's a violation of his weird-ass warrior's code to betray friends and people he respects.

"Moreau," Eliot says quietly, eyes serious and _old_ in his young face. "I didn't tell them about my past with him until I couldn't keep it a secret any longer. I didn't wanna tell 'em. I didn't want them to know who I really am."

Lindsey winces. Moreau. He'd heard about the Leverage team taking him down a while back and thought that since Eliot obviously hadn't wanted him dead (because if he had, Moreau would be a doornail right now), Lindsey wouldn't send the imprisoned crime lord a nasty magical surprise in a box, although he _really_ wanted to. And then they hadn't talked about it. He knew that Eliot knew that he knew, and that was the end of it.

"I told them," Eliot continues, the admission sounding painful, "Not everything I did, but…"

"But it was enough that you shared that much with us," Sophie says gently, sparing him. "You kept it from us to protect us, because that's what you do. You're right; I will never knowingly do anything to hurt you, not ever again. I've seen you broken and bleeding enough, and I've hated it each time, especially when it was because of me." There are real tears in her eyes by the time she says this, and she holds her hand out to Eliot, who walks over to her and touches her arm, trusting.

"It's my job, Soph," he says. Then he looks at his brother, pleading with him to just _stop_ being angry at Sophie over an old hurt.

Lindsey nods. _Fine._ "Not now, it's not," he says. He bends down to Eliot's level. "Look, no more fights until we get this business straightened out, okay? If you absolutely have to pick a fight, hit someone your own size, and not someone _my_ size or bigger, alright?" He smirks, knowing exactly which buttons to push, like that one right there…

Eliot scowls and punches him. "Asshole."

Lindsey snorts and fends off another hit by grabbing the boy in a very loose chokehold. "I thought I specifically told you not to pick on someone my size not two seconds ago," he says with a bright grin reserved only for his brother. "What's wrong with your hearing?"

Eliot bares teeth and growls at him when he can't fight against his brother's greater strength. He'd taught Lindsey that very hold, and knows that it's impossible to get out of, especially by someone smaller and weaker. He still struggles. It's the principle of the thing.

Lindsey laughs. "Was I ever this adorable?"

Sophie tries to conceal her own chuckle, but it slips out anyway. The red-faced little boy with Eliot's disgruntled expression is too much for her.

Lindsey straightens and lets Eliot go. He avoids the punch to his nether regions easily, but has to pick Eliot up completely to avoid the kick to the shins and stomp to his foot. This only serves to frustrate Eliot further.

"Sophie," Lindsey says, simultaneously giving his brother a small shake and a glare. _Stop it, El._ "I uh, I guess I'm sorry. For blowing up at you, I mean. It's old history, and that's something I've never been good at forgetting. Call it a character flaw. If Eliot trusts you, then I guess I should, too. Watch him for me 'til I can get back," he says, repeating his earlier request, this time with more "please" in his voice and mannerisms than the "or else" of before, and pushes Eliot towards Sophie.

She takes him and puts her hands on his shoulders. He doesn't shake her off, but he does cross his arms and continue to scowl at his brother for handling him like a child. "I can do that. We all will. And Lindsey? If you're anything like your brother…Well, be careful."

Lindsey gives her a "good ole country boy" smile that's just like Eliot's. "In that aspect, I'm exactly like my brother. Paranoid as the day is long, but with a reckless streak somewhere in the mix. That's the McDonald boys right there."

Eliot marches forward and grabs Lindsey's shirt in small fists to get his attention. "If you die," he growls, "I'm gonna bring you back just to kick your ass and kill you all over again, y'hear? So don't freakin' die!" His threat is punctuated with angry yanks of the shirt.

Lindsey disentangles himself from Eliot's clutch with some difficulty. "Alright, alright. Don't get your Batman pull-ups in a twist. I'll be back as soon as I find something."

Eliot huffs sullenly. "Keep in touch."

"Want a kiss goodbye, too?" Lindsey counters, to which Eliot replies with something unprintable.

Lindsey shakes his head sadly. "In front of a lady, El? Mama's rollin' over in her grave right now. Go wash your mouth out with soap, pipsqueak."

Eliot scowls and shows him a very special finger.

Lindsey clears his throat to hide his smile. "So, uh, bye. Sophie." He jerks his head at Eliot.

Sophie nods. _Message received._ "Bye, Lindsey. We'll see you soon."

Eliot watches the exchange with his usual angry expression on his face, but is secretly relieved that his brother is no longer dwelling on turning Sophie's snakeskin boots into real snakes. Once Lindsey leaves, he heads towards the hallway at the other end of the lobby.

"Where are you going?" Sophie asks, slightly confused, and hoping the child-like amnesia hasn't suddenly returned. "The lift is this way."

Eliot, finally having had enough, turns and stomps a bare foot. "I gotta piss! Ain't a man allowed to piss around here? Or do I gotta ask your permission for that, too? Jesus!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

><p>AN: There's a bit at the end of <em>Serenity<em> (the _Firefly_ movie) where River Tam watches her brother Simon get it on with Kaylee from an air vent. *shakes head* Little sisters.

Latin Translations:

"_Abundans cautela non nocet"_ - "abundant caution does no harm," Frequently phrased as "one can never be too careful."

* * *

><p>Whee! More anonymous reviews. Okie dokie.<p>

To kkatee:

Any review is greatly appreciated, and thank you for taking the time to write one…"Anyone who combines _Princess Bride, Disc World, Angel_, and _Leverage_ deserves a proper review." - How do you feel about _Supernatural, The X-Files, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, _and _The Mummy_ in addition to _Discworld_ and the two main crosses _Angel/Leverage_? All in one fic? Would that make your little geek head explode? Mine did when the idea popped into my brain. It's just an idea, though, so don't get your hopes up too much. Too late? My bad. ;D… Eliot and Lindsey fighting. Even brothers who get along fight sometimes. See Sam and Dean? They sound like an old married couple, but try to get between them? Demon dagger in your gut. It's the same with Eliot and Lindsey… Genius? "Wow" right back at you! Thanks! I'm really glad you like my stuff _that_ much.

To Jen:

Well, if you don't sign in and review anonymously, that's the same as not having an account! I can't reply to your awesome reviews except where like, a gazillion people (not that that many people read this story; the real number is closer to 650) can read it, too! Let's see…cute? Check. Frequent updates? Every 2-4 days, I think. That's very good, isn't it? I hate it when people stop posting for months at a time, or even stop altogether. *guilty look* This story? Not a problem at all. It's complete. So I'm glad this satisfies your Angel crossover craving. It's people like you who satisfy my craving for reviews and attention. I mean…Did I really say that? Whoops. Not j/k, unfortunately. The future of my existence relies on reviews! ;D Thank you!

Thanks, people! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, too.


	10. No

AN: Short chapter, sorry, but I think it's a good cut-off point because it tells you where this story is going…Besides, the last chapter was super-long, and so was the one before it.

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**No**

The man hasn't been back, not since he'd promised to save them. Some say he's been taken by the Shadows, too. Some say he's dead. Old Lulu Elder says the ducks must've et 'im, but no one pays much attention to the crazy old bat anyway.

They talk.

They whisper.

No one says that he must have lied about helping them. Because no one believes that. No one was taken last night, or the night before last. No one since Moniqua from Fifth and Maple last week. She was the last.

They watch.

They wait.

There have been people at the man's apartment, often with a small boy. The people take boxes out of the building. And they wonder, did the bad men get their friend after all? Where has he gone? Why did he leave?

They wonder.

They worry.

The boy sees them and he tells them, he tells them that they're safe now. They can sleep safe on the streets now. No more Shadows, he tells them. No more fear, he says to them with serious blue eyes. An old soldier's eyes in a boy so young.

It's the man, they whisper. So young now, he's a boy. But it's him, it's the man. So young, old soul.

They whisper.

They watch.

They watch over him, see that he's safe, see that he's fed and warm and has a place to sleep (because that's all that's needed to live, to survive), they watch the people who were the man's friends take care of him and watch over him.

They see the boy smile and laugh, and they smile to see it.

And they sleep safe, safe on the streets where they've always lived.

They disappear into the background of the busy city streets.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"No."

Eliot crosses his arms and scowls. "No way."

"Eliot," Sophie says coaxingly, "Eliot darling, we don't know how long it will take your brother to find a way to reverse the spell. We need to make sure you're all healthy and strong."

"No doctor."

"I hate going to the doctor, too," Parker says from her perch on the kitchen counter and swings her feet, "They always try to give me a shot. I don't like getting shots. Except for the lollipops. I always make sure to steal all of them because the nurses are mean."

"Parker, not helping," Sophie says out of the side of her mouth.

"C'mon, lil' man," Hardison starts, and backs off at the glare he gets. "I mean, Eliot. We know adult you was all healthy and badass and shit, but little you…smaller you? Younger you might step on a rusty nail and get all tetanus-y and septic-y and stuff. None of us want that, man."

"No."

"Eliot. You're going to see the doctor," Nate says sternly, and walks out the door without a second look back.

Eliot holds out for about thirty seconds, then reluctantly follows Nate out with a heavy sigh.

Nate's waiting outside the door, as if he'd known the whole time that Eliot would do as commanded. Eliot glares at him half-heartedly from under his curly mop of hair.

"Come on," Nate says with a small smile and puts a hand on the back of the sullen boy's neck. "We'll get ice cream after."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"No," Eliot says from the tiny space behind Nate's couch.

"Come on, Eliot. Quit the Parker imitation and come out of there," Nate says. It's late, and the six-year-old should have been in bed an hour ago.

"Not goin' ta bed," Eliot maintains adamantly, "I'm not tired."

"Eliot!"

"You ain't my daddy. Ya can't make me!" It's punctuated by a pout that Nate can just barely see in the darkness around the couch.

He sighs and ignores the unintended jab. It's not unusual for the boy to forget things he'd known as an adult, things like how Nate had really been a father and how he'd lost his son. Otherwise, Nate knew, he would never say anything to hurt him or anyone else on the team. "Eliot."

There's no response, only a stubborn silence. Nate shakes his head and sighs. He'll be back later, when Eliot's more malleable from exhaustion.

The boy yawns as he waits for more coaxing words, but the wait is long, and his eyelids start to droop.

Five minutes later, Nate lifts up one end of the sofa and pivots it so that he can pick up the peacefully slumbering Eliot, and carries him to the end of the hall to the newly-refurbished bedroom in his apartment. Tucking him in is an action that comes back like riding a bike, and he brushes the boy's tangled curls back from his forehead in a gentle caress.

"Sweet dreams, Eliot."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"No," Eliot says again, marching up to Nate and jabbing a sticky finger in the direction of his face (but only managing to reach up to about his diaphragm), "You ain't doin' a job without me."

"The client needs our help," Nate says, and the matter's settled, whether Eliot likes it or not.

He doesn't get a vote; he's not eighteen yet.

(In case anyone is wondering, no, he hasn't been allowed to touch alcohol since he'd turned into a kid. And he _really_ needs a drink. You'd think it would be easy getting just that one sip he really, _really_ needs, living in the same apartment as an alcoholic, but no. Nate's smart. Don't ask, but it's very clever and incredibly infuriating. But he's working on it. He has a plan. He's sick of milk and fruit juice.)


	11. Blame

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Blame**

The job goes fine.

So does the one after that one.

And the one after that.

Nate even lets Eliot sit in on the action with a com in Hardison's van. Joy.

It's on the next job that things go terribly awry.

Parker gets hurt and Sophie almost gets caught, and it's all Eliot's fault. He should have been there. He should have been able to knock those security guys out, easy, but when they need him, he's sitting in the back of the van Hardison insists on calling Lucille 3.0, stuck in his six-year-old body. Nate keeps him from getting out and busting noses (okay, _kneecaps_ at his current height) by wrapping his arms around him so tight that he can't move. He's stronger than he looks.

Eliot should have been out there. Parker shouldn't have gotten hurt.

They try to tell him, no, no, it wasn't his fault, it wasn't at all, jobs go wrong sometimes, but it's no use. It's his fault. It's his fault that Parker has to go to the hospital to get stitched up because his fingers are too small and too clumsy to handle the needle, and it's his fault that she got hurt in the first place because _he wasn't there._

They try to tell him that it wasn't his fault, but it's all lies. Sophie's using her con voice, and it's really all his fault.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Eliot is inconsolable. Nate sends him to bed, not quite in tears, but the big blue eyes are swimming in them.

"What do we do?" Sophie whispers, more so as not to be heard by Eliot than in an attempt keep from awakening Parker, who is fast asleep on the couch in the deep slumber that comes only to the medicated.

"He really believes that it was his fault," Hardison says, shaking his head. "This is messin' with him so much. I just wish that man would hurry up and get Eliot back to normal. This ain't like him at all."

"No, it's not," Sophie sighs, sending a worried look towards the bedroom at the end of the hall. "I really wish we could do something."

"It's his birthday the day after tomorrow," Nate observes, and walks to the window with his glass of whiskey.

Sophie gasps. "Yes! That's it! We'll throw him a big birthday party, and he'll forget all about it. Oh, let's make a list. Let's see, what do we need? Balloons, cake - Oh, _presents_!"

"Everything Batman, right?" Hardison says, pulling up the webpage for a party supply store. "Whoa. That's a lot of Bat in Black stuff. Black balloons? That's kinda creepy. This ain't Halloween."

Nate listens to the two of them eagerly planning the party for the six-turning-seven-year-old who, if certain events hadn't interfered, should have been turning thirty-eight, and slips away to Eliot's room.

It's dark and quiet in the room, but even though the breaths are deep and even, there's a slight hitch that tells Nate that the boy isn't really asleep. Still, he leans over as if he's fooled by the act and brushes dark blond bangs off of the warm forehead and cups the wet cheek in his palm.

"Call him," he whispers, and places the cell phone with the number already punched in it on the bedside table.

Then he straightens and walks out of the room, giving Eliot the privacy that seems to be becoming increasingly elusive the longer he stays a child. As he closes the door quietly behind him, he hears the telltale rustling of the bedcovers that tell him his words had been heard and heeded.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sitting in yet another stale-aired library, _once you've seen one, you've seen 'em all, even the ones in other dimensions _is the conclusion Lindsey comes to, as he rubs his eyes tiredly. There are huge stacks of books in front of him, all with arcane writing, and more often than not, warnings to the reader that opening this tome may suck one's soul out, make one's eyes bleed, or have some other unintended consequence. At least the nice ones have warnings.

Lindsey's learned enough tricks over the years to avoid such mishaps, but it's still harrowing work to sift through the dusty words to find the ones he's looking for. There are a few spells he thinks might work, but they all involve rituals that Eliot would _not_ approve of. In fact, Lindsey knows that if he even suggests one of them, Eliot would promptly (threaten to) kick his ass.

_Trust Eliot to get into this kind of trouble, _he thinks,_ Only Eliot. _Then, the thought that such a reflection is slightly hypocritical strikes him, and he feels a twinge of guilt in the way only his brother can evoke.

His self-imposed guilt trip is disrupted by a shrill ringing sound. The demon reading at the table next to his looks up and glares at him over his half-moon spectacles.

Oh, it's _his_ cell phone. Right. People rarely call him anymore; he's either dead or doesn't exist to most of the world. Sometimes, it's not much use having a phone that can take calls from any dimension.

_Nathan Ford_, says the name on the display. _Dammit, Eliot!_ Lindsey picks up, hoping that nothing has happened to his brother. Nothing permanent, anyway. He doubly hopes that whatever it was, it wasn't another witch. With their luck…

"Yeah?"

"_Linny?"_ Damn, Eliot sounds so young, so scared. It's strange to hear him sounding this _small_. Eliot has always been bigger than life to Lindsey, even when they were kids. One glare from his twin could send the biggest bullies scurrying, no matter how girly a name Mama had _blessed_ Lindsey with.

"Eliot. Something wrong?" _Gods, please say no._

"_Parker got hurt today. An' Sophie almost got caught," _the small voice says, and Lindsey swears, there's a crack in it. Eliot, crying? Eliot doesn't cry (unless very drunk or very concussed), and Lindsey doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to deal with a crying six-year-old Eliot, because six-year-old Eliot never cried. Being shrunk to such a small age must be hell on him; he's used to being the- well, if not the biggest, then the most menacing, badass guy in the room.

"What happened?" Lindsey asks, trying to be gentle about it. Best to know all the information available, anyway.

Eliot tells him, hiccupping now and then, and Lindsey pretends that he doesn't hear them (or the sniffling and other tell-tale signs of tears) because he's such a good brother (although he mentally files them away for future blackmail).

"_So it's all my fault,"_ Eliot concludes.

Lindsey sighs and rubs his head. Oh, how to begin. "Eliot, d'you know what _'accusare nemo se debet nisi coram Deo'_ means?"

That fixes the six-year-old crying problem. _"It means you're a Latin-quotin' dick,"_ Eliot immediately fires back. _"Stop bein' stuck-up."_

Lindsey smiles. _Score_. "It means," he continues, as if he hadn't heard the insult, "that 'no one ought to accuse himself except in the Presence of God.' You get what I'm saying, El?"

Eliot heaves an immense sigh. _"Yeah."_ That's all he says, but Lindsey can hear the "but" at the end.

"It's not your fault that you are in the position that you're in now," he says firmly. "The reason you're like this to begin with is because you were trying to save Parker, isn't it?"

"_Yeah, but…"_

Lindsey ploughs on, in full lawyer mode. He hasn't had the chance to air out this side of him for a long time. "And you told Ford that working without you would be dangerous. Numerous times. Therefore, you have no liability in the matter."

"_But…"_

"El."

Eliot sighs again. _"It_ feels_ like it's my fault. I hate bein' this _useless_." _

Lindsey can practically see the pout on his brother's round face. Eliot hadn't been a pouter as a kid. That was Lindsey's niche. Lindsey's and Abby's. But then Abby and the baby had died, and then it was just the two of them and Mama and Daddy (and then Daddy had died, too, then Mama), and maybe Lindsey had gotten a little spoiled because he was the younger twin. But Eliot never pouted. He scowled.

"You're not useless," Lindsey sighs, glaring back at the bespectacled demon angrily signing at him to get off his damn phone. He makes a hand signal which, translated literally, means _'your nest-mother has bred multiple times with your litter-mate,'_ and stands up to stretch his legs outside.

"Eliot, what do you do when you can't use your strength? Huh?" he says, not missing a beat. "You're tied up, no wiggle room, what do you do? You use your head, El. You stop and look around, see whatever you have to work with, and you use it. You haven't lost everything. Work with what you have."

There's a long silence on the other end. _"Sometimes I feel myself slipping, Linny," _Eliot says quietly, _"Scares me."_ It's almost a whisper, but it tears at Lindsey's heart all the same. Eliot is never scared like this. Never.

"I know, El," is the only thing he can find to say because he doesn't know how to make this better. "Just don't forget, alright? Try not to forget being an adult. I'm working on finding a counterspell but it'll take time, so until I can figure it out, you do your best not to forget, alright? And don't get yourself killed doing something stupid," he adds. It's Eliot, after all. Eliot, with a child's impulses, a child's body, and a child's knack for getting into trouble.

"_I'm not stupid."_ There's that pout again, but it's less dismal, more defensive. He can work with that. As long as his brother's not bawling at him, he can do this.

"That's right," he says soothingly, "You're not. So don't do anything that might be construed as such."

Eliot heaves yet another sigh. _"Linny? What you're doin', is it dangerous?"_

"No," Lindsey lies smoothly, having fought off three Relitan demons just yesterday, and still sore from the battle, "I'm fine, El."

Eliot's inborn bullshit detector is obviously still working, because he immediately says, _"You're lying. Be careful, Linny. It's not worth you getting killed over. I'm not dead, I'm not dying, so don't get hurt for nothing."_

"I'm alright. Thanks to you, I can take care of myself just fine." His brother's training has helped him in so many ways over the years, and he can't begin to thank him for taking him on. This, finding a simple re-aging spell, this is easy. This, he can do.

"_Okay." _Eliot yawns. Lindsey can hear his jaw crack.

"Go back to bed, El. If you want, I can keep talkin' to ya 'til you fall asleep." They used to do that when they were young. Talking, talking, talking, until one of them nodded off. The other always followed within minutes.

"_Yeah?"_

"Sure," he says, and leans back on the wall of the library, "Ya know, the other day, I ran into this girl, and she was _stacked_, I mean, _damn_…"

"_Betcha you didn't even talk ta her."_

"Shut up and go to sleep. Like I was saying before someone so rudely interrupted..."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Latin translation (although it's already provided in the story):

_Accusare nemo se debet nisi coram Deo_ = "No one ought to accuse himself except in the Presence of God." Wiki adds: "A legal maxim denoting that any accused person is entitled to make a plea of not guilty, and also that a witness is not obliged to give a response or submit a document that will incriminate himself. A very similar phrase is _nemo tenetur se ipsum accusare_ 'no one is bound to accuse himself.'"


	12. Suspicions

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Suspicions**

When morning comes, Eliot emerges from his room noticeably calmer, but he's _too _calm, _too _quiet, and not the bouncing bundle of energy he's been the past few weeks.

He meets Nate's eyes, nods. _Thanks._

Nate nods back, _Of course._ He sets the glass of orange juice down next to Eliot's bowl of cereal and pours the milk in for him. "Eat your breakfast, Eliot," he says, and runs his hand through the boy's hair in a familiar gesture as he passes by him.

"Not really a kid, Nate," Eliot grumbles, more on reflex than anything, and seats himself at the table. However, before he even has the chance to pick up his spoon, the bowl is slipped out from under his nose.

"Hey! Parker!"

He looks at the unrepentant thief eating his cereal, and sighs. "Feeling better?"

"Than what?" Parker asks, spraying crunchy bits, "Than you? I'm still big. That's a good thing."

Eliot's eyes flicker to the white extra-large cotton pad taped onto Parker's right arm. It's a defensive wound. The guilt flares up again.

"Eliot," Sophie says gently over the rim of her rose-patterned tea cup, "it wasn't your fault."

Parker frowns. "What wasn't his fault?" She gasps. "Did you spill soda on Hardison's computer again?"

He scowls. "No, and that was you the first two times."

Hardison gives an exaggerated sniffle. "They were _good_ machines. Rest in peace, Nichelle 11.0 and Nichelle 12.0." He raises his morning bottle of orange soda in tribute.

Parker leans over to whisper to Eliot. "If Hardison names his computers, does that mean you named your fists? I named my lock picks after the Three Stooges," she says with a manic grin.

"There's something wrong with you." He starts eating the second bowl of cereal that Nate sets down in front of him to replace the pilfered first one.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

They're up to something; he knows they are. He's not stupid, and he still has basic observation skills. There's the rustling and the giggling, and then there's the way they all shut up when he walks into the room. Definitely not suspicious. At all.

Nate's the one assigned to keep him entertained, and he has to say, does a fairly good job of it, considering _he's a friggin' adult, people!_

They go to the park, taking with them the football that Eliot had brought into the office two years ago in an attempt to get Hardison out of his computer chair and go _outside _for once. (The ploy had only worked until Hardison booted up a football computer game. It's just not the same.)

He doesn't ask what the hell is going on; it's a nice day to throw the ol' hogskin around, and he knows that Nate won't tell him anyway. He'll just have to wait and see. And maybe sneak around a little on his own. He's working on a plan for that.

When they get back that evening, there's take-out on the table because no one has attempted to cook anything more complicated than toast since Eliot's transformation (well, there was Parker's can of Spaghetti-Os in the microwave, which resulted in the fire department being called to get rid of the ceiling-high flames and Eliot banning them all from _his_ kitchen and grumbling about how they're as bad as Linny, but at least _he_ knows not to put friggin' _cans_ in his _microwave_), and secretive smiles on the team's faces.

Or rather, Sophie's acting for all the world like there's nothing suspicious at all, and Parker's grinning like a loon and keeps trying to bring _something _up, only to be shushed by the other two. Hardison's the one with the secretive smile.

Nate pats his back and tells him to go get cleaned up for dinner.

Eliot eyes them all suspiciously throughout the meal, but nothing happens, absolutely nothing, all the way up through bath time and to bedtime.

Bedtime is a source of real frustration for both Nate and Eliot.

Eliot always insists that as an adult, he has a right to _not_ be told when to brush his teeth and to go to bed. _And _he doesn't need to be tucked in. (It doesn't matter that he'd wandered out of bed one night and slipped in with Nate and the very surprised Sophie. It was only once. Anyway, it was only because he'd had a bad dream _and_ woken up without Linny next to him. And he was cold and it's important to maintain body heat. In the middle of July.)

Nate says that a child's body cannot survive on ninety minutes of sleep, so suck it up, buddy. He also knows another reason aside from the one Eliot provides for why the tiny hitter doesn't like to go to sleep with the others around. Not a night goes by without Nate sneaking into Eliot's bedroom to smooth the pained frowns away and calm the restless movements with a few murmured words (while, of course, keeping a wary eye out for kicks and punches).

Nightmares. That Eliot Spencer has nightmares which keep him from getting a full night's sleep is no surprise, when one considers what the man must have seen and done in his life. It hadn't even been too much of a shock to wake up with three in his bed one morning instead of the two he'd been expecting. It had, however, brought back painful memories of Sam doing the exact same thing and pretending it had never happened in the morning when he was at that age.

"Got to bed, Eliot," Nate says firmly and points down the hallway.

Eliot pouts for a moment, catches himself pouting, and changes it to a scowl. "Fine. But I'm not tired."

After the door clicks shut behind him, Sophie says, "Half an hour?"

"Give it forty-five minutes," Nate replies.

Two and a half minutes later, Parker heaves a giant sigh. "I'm bored. See you later!" She hops up and disappears into the air vent.

"Parker, you'll be back, won't you?" Sophie asks in a carrying whisper.

"_Yeah,"_ says the muffled voice from the ceiling.

Then she says, _"Oh, hi Eliot!"_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Eliot has a plan.

He knows that it's something not even Nate will think of because they all see that he's little and think he's little, but it hasn't really gotten deep in their heads that he can do different things with his smaller body now that he couldn't have before instead of only not being able to do big-people things.

Like, say for example, crawl into tiny spaces.

He waits exactly sixty seconds. Then he creeps out of the bed and climbs the bookcase that Parker had insisted on positioning right under the air vent (so that he'd have an escape route, should he ever need an extra one), and hoists himself into a world hitherto unknown to him.

He crawls slowly at first, then speeds up when his childhood claustrophobia fails to show its face. He tries to go as quietly as possible, and though he knows that he's nowhere as silent as Parker, he knows that he's pretty darn quiet.

He turns the corner, and…

"Oh, hi Eliot! What are you doing up here?"

He groans. "Hi Parker. Crap."

Needless to say, Nate sends Eliot back to bed and actually _sits_ _next to him _until he falls asleep. It's humiliating.

A man's got his rights, ya know, and Eliot's are all being revoked for the reason that he's not a man anymore, but a naughty little boy.

Eliot knows a very grown-up word that would fit this situation right now, but he doesn't say it out loud; Nate's kind of a scary dad.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

><p>AN: That's right. Hardison named his computers after Nichelle Nichols, the original Lt. Uhura. Kudos if you caught that.<p>

Spaghetti-Os in the microwave: inside joke, which isn't all that inside-y if you're a nosy person who reads PPMs (Public Private Messages). ;D

* * *

><p>Speaking of PPMs, here's another one. This is for zippy zany, anon reviewer:<p>

Yes, this particular story is complete, and I'm working on more in this verse…School. I was going to include a storyline featuring Eliot in elementary school, believe it or not, but alas, I mentioned that his birthday is in July (which is when part of this story takes place), and there is no school in the US during the summer months. Thanks for noticing that little detail. But yes, I did consider it. Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	13. And Many More

AN: So sorry about the wait (…wasn't _that _long…). Real life got in the way. I will also get to replying to all the wonderful reviews you've left me as soon as RL gets a little less hectic. Anyway, here's what you've all been waiting for...at least I hope it is…Enjoy!

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**And Many More**

The next morning begins like a typical sunny July day.

Hardison whines, Parker crunches on her cereal, Sophie tuts and fusses, and Nate drinks his coffee Irish.

Well, it begins like a typical July day…except about an hour earlier than usual. Which, incidentally, is why Hardison is whining.

The reason for this is…ah, here he comes…

"What..." Eliot looks around the apartment in sleepy amazement. "Did Parker steal a toy store again?"

Parker snorts. "No, silly. We bought everything. Except for the streamers. Those were the only things Sophie would let me steal. Meanie." She glares at Sophie.

"Huh?"

Hardison walks over to Eliot and tries to put a cardboard hat on him. Operative word: "tries."

Eliot bats the hat-wielding hacker away. "What are you doin'? What-What is this?"

"It's your birthday, man." Hardison tries to put the hat on him again. Eliot dodges the move with a slightly confused frown. "Ya know, birthday? Day you were born? You celebrate it?"

"Oh." Eliot blinks. "But we don't celebrate birthdays."

Sophie comes over. "Why not start a new team tradition, then?" she says, and puts her arm around him to lead him over to the table, which is stacked with colorful, beribboned boxes.

He follows dazedly. "But…" He stops. "Guys, I know I _look_ like a kid, but I'm thirty-seven."

"Thirty-eight," Nate corrects.

Eliot shoots him an annoyed look. "Whatever. Look, it was real nice of y'all to do this for me, but I'm not six."

"Yeah, you're seven," Parker says.

"We know that you're an adult," Sophie cuts in smoothly on the budding frustration tantrum, "But we can't very well celebrate it the way you normally would. They'd boot us out of the bar if we took you in with us!"

"I don't celebrate my birthday! What's wrong with treating it like a normal day?" He looks around, embarrassed at the attention and sees Parker doing something to the pile of boxes. "Parker, what are you doing?"

"You don't want them, right?" she replies, "I wanted to see what everyone got you."

"What's wrong with you?" he growls, and stalks over to where she's sitting, perched on the table and shaking _his_ presents. "You don't open other people's presents."

"Ooh, this one sounds good," she says, and plops a huge box down in front of him. "It rattles."

He eyes it suspiciously.

Sophie chuckles. "Just open it, Eliot. It won't bite."

He glares at it. "How d'you know? Is it from you?"

"Well, no, but none of us would give you something that _would_ bite," Sophie says carefully.

Eliot looks pointedly at the exuberant Parker.

"Uh, but it's obviously not from her," Sophie amends.

He stares at the giant gift-wrapped package in front of him. He's never been given anything this _big_ as a present before. He checks the label. _To Eliot, From Nate_. Should be safe enough.

Hardison eggs him on, "Just hurry up and open it, man!"

"Want me to open it for you?" Parker asks sweetly, eyes dancing. She really wants to see what's in the box.

"No," he growls, and tears the paper off.

Legos. Nate's actually given him two boxes; one deluxe package of standard Legos, and a Batman set.

"Damn," Hardison says, perking up, "That's the Arkham Asylum collectible. Those are pretty rare."

Eliot hadn't known that, but he glares at Hardison and says, "Get your own. This baby's mine!" He grins gap-toothed at Nate (having lost his front tooth a while back - the Tooth Fairy left him a whole dollar under his pillow), and grips the box close to his chest. "Thanks."

Nate smiles at him. He's doing a good job of hiding the grief this scene undoubtedly brings to mind, but they all see it anyway.

"Ooh! Open mine! Open mine next!"

The box is wrapped in shiny black paper. Characteristically, there's a lock on it. When he finally gets it open, he sees that there's another box fitted inside it. Growling in frustration, he checks to see if it's booby trapped, then carefully opens it. Inside is a tiny harness, sized just right to fit his new body.

"Thanks," he says, and hopes she doesn't offer to help him test it out.

Sophie's is a child-sized stove and oven set, complete with tiny mixing bowls, pots and pans, and utensils. The box says it actually works, which makes Eliot a very happy camper. He's missed cooking _so_ much, but it's difficult to handle a skillet when one has to hold it with both hands. And then there's the additional factor of not being able to reach the stove without a chair.

Sophie's gift is _very_ much appreciated. He gives her a hug. Just 'cause.

Hardison, predictably, has gotten him some kind of handheld computer game. "Kids love games," he says. "Come on, just try it!"

Eliot grudgingly obliges (Hardison _had_ gotten it for him, and Mama taught him to always thank people for gifts), but goes cross-eyed with the effort. Still, he says thank you like he's supposed to and looks over at the last unopened box left on the table.

"Who's that one from?" Parker wonders, "Did someone get him two? Can I have two on _my_ birthday?"

No one fesses up to giving Eliot two gifts, so they search the inconspicuous-looking box for a label or a tag. There isn't one, so they shrug and look at Eliot. _Up to you, if you want to open it_. _Could be a bomb, but ya never know._

Eliot pokes at it. Hmm, it _seems _safe enough. And if it isn't, well, not too many people have two seventh birthdays anyway. He shrugs and decides to go for it.

Off comes the nondescript wrapping paper, and off comes the cardboard lid.

_Whoom!_

There's an explosion of silver confetti. Nate later swears up and down that there _wasn't_ a twinkling bell sound accompanying the glitter. There wasn't. When all the little silver pieces drift down and settle, they peek inside the box.

"That's it?" Parker says, sounding bummed out after the excitement from the _"Ooh, shiny"_ abates. "It's an envelope. A boring one."

Eliot reaches in and takes it out. It's as ordinary an envelope as an envelope can get. White, the kind used for business letters. It's sealed shut, and when he turns it over, there are two letters on the front: _El_.

"Lindsey!" Eliot exclaims, recognizing the free-flowing handwriting and the nickname. "It's from Lindsey!"

Hardison raises his eyebrows. "He sent you a letter for your birthday? That sucks."

"Maybe there's money in it," Parker says hopefully. "Or a card. People put cards in gifts, right?"

Eliot just smiles and tears it open. There's a very short letter inside, hand-written on plain computer paper.

"_Hey El,"_ it says,

"_I know we aren't big on birthdays, or presents in general, but I thought this year could be an exception for obvious reasons. It's not new, anyway, so if you don't like it, feel free to toss it. Don't know why I kept it all these years._

_~L"_

Eliot grins and puts the letter aside, looking in the box again.

"But there was nothing else in the box..." Sophie begins, then stops. "Oh. How did that get in there? Is there a secret panel? And how did he get the box in here in the first place? We were here the whole time!"

"Magic!" Eliot says, hugging the stuffed bear. It's tatty and old, plainly past its best days, but very well-loved. "It's Sprout!"

"Sprout?"

"Yeah," Eliot explains, "Sprout was Lindsey's. Mine was named Bean, but I gave 'im ta Abby 'cause she wanted him. So he shared with me so I could have one, too."

Nate winces at the implication. From the way the boy acts and the things that slip out at times, that poverty had been an issue is obvious. Had Eliot's family been so poor that they couldn't afford to buy another teddy bear? Or was it something else? Negligent parents? But no, this smaller version of Eliot hasn't shown any signs of that. No ducking away from sudden moves and raised voices, no cowering away. He seems to be a perfectly normal, healthy child, when he is a child. It's when his mind is more adult that his true age shows, in his eyes, in his speech, in the way he holds himself.

"Why didn't he just send you Bean? Isn't Abby dead? She'd want you to have him back, right?"

"_Parker!"_ Nate, Sophie, and Hardison all hiss at the same time.

Eliot gets a haunted expression in his eyes. "We buried him with her," he says sadly, worrying at one of Sprout's worn-out ears. The bear is missing one eye, and both arms have been carefully refastened to the deflated body. "She wanted him," he says again.

He clears his throat and tries to shake the memory off. "What's for breakfast? I'm hungry," he says, although he really isn't.

"Cake!" Parker exclaims.

"No, Parker," Nate says, not liking the dark look in Eliot's eyes. "We can't have ice cream cake for breakfast."

"We'll have it after lunch. We're going out for breakfast," Sophie says. She wants to get rid of whatever awful memories are giving Eliot that troubled expression. "Wherever you like, Eliot."

"Well," he says, picking at an old familiar stain on Sprout's leg, "There's this place I used to go sometimes. They do pretty good breakfasts."

"That sounds wonderful!"

"Okay, what's it called?" Hardison asks, tapping on his phone to get driving directions, and they're off.

Sprout doesn't get left behind, and neither does a housefly _(Musca domestica magicus) _that had hitched a ride in the sparkling explosion from the box. It zips out the door above their heads and lands on Nate's hair.


	14. Fly on the Wall

AN: Guess who's finally done with the _really_ stressful RL stuff?…For this month at least. *tears hair out* Anyway, I was going to go to bed but got up again and decided to post a new chapter. Because I'm awesome, that's why. Either that, or I have an inflated opinion of myself by thinking that this will make people happy. I will also finish replying to all those wonderful reviews and PMs that I didn't get to answering yesterday. *guilty* *shame-face* But I had so many in my inbox because you've all been so very nice to me by reviewing _and_ replying to my longwinded Review Replies.

Thanks! And happy Wednesday!

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**Fly on the Wall**

They spend the rest of the day at the zoo.

Eliot comments, "I haven't been to one of these since that time I had to steal a monkey. Stupid monkeys. Hate 'em. Alla them."

The dark glower on his little face keeps them from asking why (and makes Sophie steer them _away_ from the primates section of the zoo), although Parker does voice her curiosity about which zoo it was.

"It's classified," Eliot says mysteriously.

Parker nods. "I stole a boa constrictor once from the San Diego Zoo when I was fourteen. I named him Suzie. I was mad when he ran away. He ate Gerry the Gerbil before he _poofed,_ too_._ You think he's in gerbil heaven? Gerry, I mean, not Suzie. Because that would be bad. Or really, really cool."

No one has an answer to that. Really.

They don't make it back to Nate's in time for lunch (which they eat at a ridiculously overpriced and noisy children's café at the zoo), so they have the cake for dessert after dinner instead, complete with seven candles. Eliot doesn't even grumble about the missing thirty-one. He does, however, clap delightedly and make a wish.

It's adorable. _No it's not._ No, that's right. It's not adorable at all.

The wish? Well, don't tell anybody (or else you might get a hard kick in your family jewels), but he wishes that his brother could be here with him. They haven't spent a birthday together in ages.

Sprout follows Eliot to bed, and no one says anything. No one, not even Hardison. He doesn't. Not a word. Nuh-uh. See? No pictures, either. Mm-mm. Except for that one, and the other one when he wasn't looking…And then the one with the cuddling, but only 'cause it was so damn cute…

What? _Someone's_ gotta make him a scrapbook for when he gets big again. And is it gonna be Nate? Or Sophie? Or Parker? Hell no. It's gonna be him. 'Cause he's the only one around here who cares enough to do it.

Yeah. Eliot's gonna kill him if he ever finds out. When he gets big again, because that little boy ain't killing anyone unless it's by being so cute that you're adorabled to death.

Parker says something about bringing Bunny over to meet Sprout and disappears into the night.

Sophie kisses Nate on the cheek and departs, saying that she's not needed tonight. Nate isn't exactly sure who she means, him or Eliot. There's a look in her eyes that tells him that maybe she means the both of them.

Nate sits back with his nightly glass of whiskey and watches a balloon move slightly in the breeze from the air conditioning. There's wrapping paper and magic confetti all over his floor, and the dinner and dessert dishes are still in the sink.

He's not quite sure how all of this makes him feel; he misses his son, but he feels like a dad again, now more than ever. And then he thinks, no, not just these past two months, it's the past four years. His team, they treat him like some sort of patriarch, and it hasn't fully registered until now. He's the team leader, sure, he's noticed that, but their dad? He's been that for a while now, and on deeper reflection, he finds that he doesn't even mind all that much.

That's when he hears the click of Eliot's door opening.

"Nate?"

Eliot pads in, Sprout dangling from one hand and his cell phone clutched in the other, "I was gonna call Lindsey, but I couldn't remember the right number."

Eliot doesn't ask for help very often, but the frustration in his face and body language tells Nate that he's been trying to figure out how to call Lindsey since he'd retreated to his bedroom a full hour ago.

"Let me see," Nate says, and takes the phone. "You got the first five numbers right. It's these last ones at the end that are shuffled around. There you go." He gives it back. "It's ringing."

Eliot climbs up onto the chair next to Nate's and grins brightly when Lindsey picks up. "Linny! Happy birthday, Linny!"

Nate listens to the conversation at this end, smiling a little at the childish innocence in Eliot's expression.

"Uh-huh. Yuh-huh. Yeah, I got him now…You can see? Waddaya mean?"

Nate becomes aware of a buzzing sound, and he's about to swat the fly when Eliot stops him.

"Nate! Don't kill the fly! It's Lindsey!" he exclaims.

"Lindsey's the fly?" Nate asks, confused. Is that even possible? Of course it's possible. He's sitting here with a seven-year-old Eliot; anything's possible.

"No," Eliot explains, as if speaking to a seven-year-old, "Lindsey's using the fly to see me." He waves at the insect, which makes lazy circles around his head. He laughs gleefully when it lands on his nose.

Nate blinks, first unsettled by the lack of hygiene in what he's seeing, then by what he's hearing. "Lindsey's using a fly for surveillance. A literal bug." He holds his head in his hands. Okay, that's a little too much for him.

Eliot pats his arm. "It's okay, Nate. Linny says the spell will wear off when the fly dies nat'rally. He won't watch us with it after that happens. 'Cause then it'll be a zombie fly and that's a whole 'nother story."

"Oh, that's good," Nate says, and takes a gulp of his drink.

"No, Nate. A zombie fly would be bad," Eliot explains slowly.

"Okay." Nate rubs his head. _Magic is real._

"Ooh, Nate, he wants ta talk to you. Here." The phone is handed to him, and he takes it gingerly.

"Hello?"

"_Hi, Nate," _says the familiar voice with unfamiliar inflections. _"Listen, I wanted to thank you for what you did for him today. You didn't have to do that, and I'm grateful you did."_

"Of course we did. He's family," Nate says automatically, then remembers that he's talking to Eliot's only remaining blood family member. "Practically family," he adds with a wince. "Metaphorically."

There's a short laugh on the other side. It's not altogether unfriendly, so he counts it as a win. _"I know. He's told me that enough times. Seeing it in action, though. I get it. Thank you."_

Nate clears his throat. "That box you sent was a big hit. Of course, you know that, having seen it all," he says, waving in the general direction of the bewitched fly.

Lindsey scoffs. _"It was nothing. A trip to storage, a couple of minor spells; it was easy."_

Nate smiles. "You know it means more than that." He looks at Eliot, who's watching him with a sleepy expression. Sprout's in his arms, and he doesn't look like he'll be letting go anytime soon. It's an anchor, something familiar, something from his brother that makes him feel safe in a world that's suddenly so very big and different.

There's an uncomfortable silence from Lindsey's side. _"Thanks again, Nate,"_ he says, _"and pass the message on to the others."_

"I will," Nate says, and is about to give the phone back to Eliot, who's holding his hand out for it impatiently.

"_Wait,"_ Lindsey says suddenly, _"I- I have a spell. It's…slightly unconventional. But it should work. It'll take me a while to get back to Boston because I need to pick up a few things before I get there."_

"That's good," Nate says, feeling an odd sinking feeling in his gut. "That's good news."

"_A few days, then,"_ Lindsey repeats.

"We'll be seeing you. And uh, happy birthday."

"_Thank you,"_ Lindsey says, sounding startled. Then he laughs softly, _"I don't think anyone apart from Eliot has said that to me since I quit having a steady day job. Thanks."_

The small confession and quiet yet heartfelt thanks bring a small smile to Nate's face. "You're welcome."

He gives Eliot the phone, and the boy heads back to his room, chattering excitedly to his brother about the distinct differences between alligators and crocodiles.

He leans back in his chair, the glass in his hand. "What are you up to, Lindsey?" he asks the fly. It buzzes in the air for a moment before landing next to his hand. It washes its face and multifaceted eyes industriously with its front legs.

"What are you planning?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

AN: I forgot to reply to anon reviewer kkatee's comment in the last chapter (_mea culpa!), _so here it is now:

Hmm, that's a good point you make about Eliot not being on any official lists for truancy, but a lot of cons take place during the day, and it has to be inconvenient for them to have Eliot stay inside (with an adult supervisor) during school hours. Nate's neighborhood: True, it might not be suspicious there, haha. And Eliot does have a high school degree already, so there isn't a _need_ for school. But seriously, wouldn't a scene with the schoolyard bully be _awesome_?...I was busy the last couple of weeks, hence the lag in updating, but I'm okay now. And I have the next medium-length story in this verse finished, along with a Christmas one-shot. Don't worry, you're good. I wouldn't want you to be a permanent grumpypants with no updates for ever and ever and ever *deep breath * and ever and ever and ever, now would I?…You fanfic my fanfic? That is so _cool_. Thank you!If you want to write something in my verse, feel free to. Let me know and I'll even mention it in the AN of the next chapter I update after you tell me. Because there can never be too much deaged Eliot, nor too much Leverage/Angel fanfic. I mean it. Go ahead and write it!…I have some Eliot backstory up ahead that talks about his parents, so thanks for mentioning the way he reacts to Nate as a dad and being in a kid's shape…Outsmart Nate? Hmmm. How about outsmarting Lindsey? I can do that one.

Thanks!


	15. The Little Fusspot

AN: Reference to one-shot #4 in "Three Times," but it's tiny.

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**The Little Fusspot**

Once Nate tells Eliot that his brother is coming, the boy spends the next few days fussing. Really, there is no other word to describe what the tiny hitter refers to as "getting ready."

He putters about, straightening furniture and polishing tables, heaving the vacuum cleaner across the floor, and fluffing up the sofa cushions to cloud-like ecstasy. It would all have been perfectly fine if he hadn't recruited the rest of the crew to help him.

Parker, who seems to heal nearly as fast as Eliot does, eagerly helps him with the cleaning. Hardison does too, not quite so enthusiastically, but he eventually gets into the spirit of things and asks Eliot what kind of movies Lindsey likes.

Sophie takes him to his apartment's rooftop garden (still carefully tended each day by childish hands), then to an organic market which the adult Eliot had used to frequent. They come back loaded with sweet-smelling fruit, fresh vegetables, and thick steaks that Eliot says "were mooing yesterday" with an amused giggle, as if quoting someone. Lindsey, probably. It seems like the kind of thing the former lawyer would say as a bribe to get Eliot to do something, most likely to stay put and heal.

Nate is coerced into supervising the cooking. Of all the team members (excepting Eliot), he is the least likely to burn or undercook the hypothetical omelet (or in Parker's case, put crumbled bits of Cheetos and candy cane in it). He has, however, never gotten the hang of keeping the omelet from becoming scrambled eggs instead. Still, he's the safest adult available to supervise, so the task falls to him. Otherwise, Eliot is forbidden from touching the hot mini-stove.

Eliot whacks Nate's hand with a tiny wooden spoon when he tries to sample the filling for the pecan pie. "No tasting," he growls.

Seriously. It's not like the man's coming to _stay_, is it?

It's all eerily similar to the way Maggie had fussed and bustled whenever the relatives were coming over, especially if it was his mother. Nate hadn't gotten the point of it then, and he sure doesn't get it now. Lindsey has already seen the place twice (once the night he came to take Eliot away, and the other time from a fly's eye view), so why bother?

The question rises to his lips several times over the next couple of days, but the sight of Eliot's joyful expression and bright eyes pushes it back down each time. _Let the boy be happy,_ he thinks sourly into his whiskey,_ He'll never have the chance to be this carefree again once the spell's over and done with._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Nate's about to get into bed when the door opens and a curly, dark blond head pops in.

"Nate?" Eliot whispers. "Bad time?"

"No," Nate says, "It's fine. Come on in, Eliot."

The boy walks in, as light on his feet now as he was in the body of an experienced fighter. The stuffed bear, hanging from Eliot's fist by one grubby arm, is half-hidden behind his leg. He seems…unsure.

"What's wrong?" Nate asks, concerned.

Eliot frowns, then appears to make up his mind. He climbs onto the bed and seats himself cross-legged on top of the covers. "Nate?" he starts, eyes cast down on the stuffed bear in his lap, "I wanted ta say thanks for takin' care of me. Ya didn't have to, an' I know I didn't 'zactly make it easy for ya. 'Specially when I forgot."

Nate stares at the boy in the Batman pajamas sitting on his bed. He's not sure if it's the adult Eliot talking, or if it's the seven-year-old version, or if this personality is in-between. "It wasn't hard," he says.

Then Eliot, the Eliot he's known all these years, looks up at him out of the young face, catching him in his lie.

"It wasn't easy for you, either," Nate amends. "It's difficult for you to bring yourself to depend on people. When it's work, it's easier, but when it's your personal life, you're private, as much as Parker is, maybe even more. You pride yourself on your control, and the last few weeks have been anything but controlled."

Eliot shifts uneasily. "Well, I'm glad that it was you, Nate," he says quietly. "You're…you're a good father. Still are, I mean. Sam was a really lucky kid ta have you for a dad."

"What about yours? What was he like?" Nate asks, and immediately wishes he could take it back. Not because of the reaction it causes, really, but because he'd just finished talking about how private Eliot is about his life. It doesn't feel right to ask after that.

There's a sad look on Eliot's eyes that Nate wants to hug and soothe away because it doesn't _belong_ there.

"He was a good man," Eliot says with his throat working over an immense lump, instead of ignoring the question like he normally would as an adult, "Y'know the kind of guy I sort of play on cons?"

Nate nods. The kind of guy who, while physically strong, tends to get pushed around by those with a stronger will than he has, yet bears it all with a gentle, good-natured smile. He looks at Eliot and doesn't see much of that man in him, but knows he's there, somewhere, because he comes out when Eliot's running a con.

"He was like that. He was a good man, but he couldn't take care of us. He tried. He worked. He worked all day to put food on the table, but it was never enough, not nearly. He…We were the kind of people our team looks for to help. We were poorer than most of 'em, even. Our house was so broke down, we had to stop up the cracks with rags, an'- " he stops, squeezing the bear in his hands and face twisting.

"Least we had somewhere to live. 'Cause there're a buncha people who don't. That's what Mama used to tell us." He sniffs a little and goes on. "Sometimes, sometimes we didn't have electricity. That was okay, in the summer, I mean, it was hot, but in the winter, it got real cold. We had a fireplace, and if we ran out of wood, we froze. The year Lindsey and I were seven, we all came down with the flu. Just your average flu. Except two of us died from it and they didn't have to."

"Your sisters?" Nate says gently, remembering the first day when Eliot had been transformed into a child.

Eliot nods sadly. "Abby and Vi. Vi was only a baby, not even a year old. An' Abby was three." He sighs, lips trembling. "Lindsey blames himself for it," he says out of nowhere.

Nate frowns. "What? What do you mean?" Why? Had he left a door or a window open? Hogged the covers? What had he done?

"He didn't get as sick as the rest of us, so he tried ta take care of everyone. It was snowing, so he couldn't get to town, even if he could drive. He tried, though. He near froze to death tryin' ta get help. One of our neighbors came ta check on us after we didn't turn up for church two Sundays in a row, but by then it was too late." Eliot scowls at the back of the bear's head. "The baby was already dead, Abby died that night, an' I almost didn't make it either."

"Why does Lindsey blame himself for their deaths? How could he have prevented it? He was a child. You were children." Nate understands blame and guilt, but how could a small boy have saved his family from dying of an untreated illness in such conditions, especially if he was ill himself?

"He couldn't've," Eliot says angrily, as if this has been the subject of many, many arguments, "It wasn't his fault, but he never got over it, and neither did our dad. He lost his job at the mine 'cause he was out sick, an' then we lost the house, an' after that, we lost him. He shot himself 'cause he couldn't take it anymore. Man loses his pride, he loses everything."

Nate blinks at the abrupt revelation. "I'm sorry, Eliot."

Eliot charges on, as if Nate hadn't spoken, "But Linny, he didn't get sad; he got mad. An' he started makin' plans about how he wasn't ever gonna be poor again, how he wouldn't ever let anyone take anythin' from him again."

"'As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again,'" Nate says quietly, seeing now why the two brothers had chosen the professions they had and had been able to climb so high - power and money are strong motivators, especially when one grows up with neither. "What about your mother?" he asks, hoping her story isn't as grim as their father's. "You mentioned her."

"Mama?" Eliot says, a small smile finally gracing his features, "She was a saint, our mama was. One helluva firecracker, too, kinda like Hardison's Nana, I think. She could whup our asses with one hand and mix up a pie with the other. She'd work two jobs, so there'd always be a quarter each for us to put in the offering plate 'cause there's people worse off than us in the world, she said. She died when we were thirteen. Got hit by a car on the walk home from work, never knew who did it."

Nate winces. Eliot catches it.

"I know," he says dryly, rubbing his face with the back of his arm, "My life is a modern Dickens novel. I should sell my story rights." He flops backwards on the bed and sighs. "We went to live with our uncle after Mama died. He worked for Willie Martin in his stables."

"Did he die, too?" Nate asks gingerly. He glances at the whiskey bottle on his nightstand. Empty. _Damn_.

Eliot nods. "Yeah," he replies, dragging it out. "But it was only 'bout ten years ago. Lung cancer. Uncle Randy smoked like a chimney, crotchety ol' cuss. But he was good ta us, and Willie and Tina - Aimee's parents - they helped, too."

"Oh," Nate says, "That's good. I mean, uh," he quickly explains, "It's not good that he died, but it's good you had your uncle and the Martins growing up."

"Yeah," Eliot agrees. "We were. Anyway, that's how come we are the way we are. That's why Linny's all protective and shit over me. It's just us. It's always been just us."

"I can imagine that you're the same with him," Nate says drolly.

"Well, yeah," Eliot says earnestly, propping himself up on his elbows, "But that's my job. I'm older."

Nate frowns. "Really? By how much?"

"Twelve minutes," the boy says so seriously that Nate's tempted to laugh. Their poor mother, he thinks.

"I see," he says instead, "And how about now?"

Eliot scowls. "Doesn't count. I was still born first."

"I'm not quite sure he'll see it that way when he gets here," Nate smiles. It's sometimes very easy to manipulate Eliot if you know how to push the right buttons. "Younger siblings can get pretty vindictive, given the chance. Or so I've heard."

"Uh-uh," Eliot says stubbornly, shaking his head.

Nate really does chuckle this time. "Have you told me everything you came here to say?" he asks, as the tiny hitter begins to look drowsy and yawns.

"Yeah, and then some," Eliot replies. He sighs softly, eyes closed, and sprawls back on the top of Nate's bed. "Feels good to finally tell someone. Never have before. Even Linny an' me don't talk about it much. Ever."

"I'm glad you told me, Eliot."

The boy doesn't reply, just breathes deeply.

"Go back to your room, buddy," Nate says softly, nudging the small unmoving figure. "Eliot?"

"Mmmhm?"

Nate sighs. "Or you can stay, I guess," he says quietly, rubbing his head. After a moment, he maneuvers the sleeping child so that he's lying _under_ the covers.

"Good night, Eliot."

The hitter yawns and rolls over, hugging the teddy bear close to his chest. _Dimples,_ is the last thing Nate thinks before climbing in next to him,_ Lord help me, that boy has dimples. _

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

AN: "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again" - quote from _Gone with the Wind._

"Their poor mother." - Paraphrase of a quote from partypony, aka One-Eyed Lady, aka My Marvelous Cy, when I told her how much older Eliot is.

Is Eliot sort of out of character here? But he's got that little kid mentality, along with his grown-up mind, which means he's not _quite_ so paranoid and private. He's been bottling it all up for years, so he spills when he feels like it…Yeah, feel free to complain about the second part of this chapter. I have some problems with it, too. Too sappy and Dickens-y.


	16. Mr Fixit

AN: I have been naughty about updating lately, but this time, I have a legitimate excuse. Some little Greek dudes invaded my computer in this huge wooden horse and my computer stupidly welcomed them in through the city gates. That's geek speak for "Poesie was stupid and as a result of said stupidity, got infected by a Trojan."

Reference to Chapter 1 of "Three Times." Again, don't have to read to understand.

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**Mr. Fixit**

Lindsey's arrival is heralded by absolutely no magic whatsoever, at least to the extent that Nate's inexperienced eye can tell. No bugs that are actual insects, no smoke, no twinkling lights or pixie dust, and God forbid, no teleporting. Nate's flexible, but there's a limit to what a man can handle in such a short length of time.

He does, however, knock, which is an unknown skill among the Leverage team. When Nate opens the door, Eliot's twin gives him a genial smile, but his bearing is tense and all business. At least, until Eliot, who has been bouncing around all day with endless nervous energy, rushes at him and grabs him in as big a hug as his short arms can manage.

"LINNY!"

Lindsey freezes, and a muscle in his cheek twitches. "Eliot, how old is the inside of your head?"

Eliot punches him in the gut with a glower.

"Ow. Okay," Lindsey says, rubbing his stomach. "Just making sure."

"You're a dork," the boy informs him with the most serious expression in his arsenal.

"Really?" Lindsey raises an eyebrow at him. "Well, you're a scrawny midget."

Eliot scowls. "Can you fix it?"

"We could wait thirty years," Lindsey says, shrugging.

"Linny!"

Lindsey sighs and nods. "Yeah. I can fix it."

There's something in his voice that Nate doesn't like. Like…foreboding, and maybe something else, something unnamed.

He exchanges a glance with Sophie. She'd heard it, too, and seen it in the man's body language. There's a thick, heavy quality in the air surrounding him, and they can't help feeling that he knows something important, something he's keeping from them, from his brother. Something…bad.

Eliot senses it, too. "What is it, Linny?"

Lindsey feigns innocence. "What's what, squirt?"

His brother levels a stern glare at him. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing," Lindsey says firmly. He winces inwardly, remembering that the last time he'd said that in response to the same question was when Eliot had first seen his missing hand. The revelation had not gone over too well.

That Eliot remembers, too, is evident in the further narrowing of his eyes. "Linny. Spill." Tiny arms cross in front of a pint-sized chest.

Lindsey sighs. "I have all the ingredients I need to do the spell, except for a piece of your hair. That's what I'm here to get. I'll do the spell and get out of here. Then you can go back to your do-gooder routine to your heart's content."

"Linny." It's said in the way only an older brother can say it, no matter how old the brother mentioned is at the moment.

Lindsey throws his hands up in exasperation. "I'm not hiding anything." Classic little brother whine. Unintentional, of course.

Eliot's brow furrows. He's thinking, remembering. "What kind of spell is it?" he says carefully. "You said that Agnes bitch wasn't all that powerful. What about the reversal spell? Is it high-level?"

Lindsey shrugs. "Does it matter? I'm here to do it. Unless you _want_ to stay like this. You can't protect your team if you're this size." He looks pointedly in Parker's direction.

Eliot scowls at the deflection. "So, it is. And you told me once that powerful spells need sacrifices to make them work. Blood."

Lindsey's eyes flicker toward Nate and the rest of the team before returning to his brother. "Yeah. You squeamish about killing a goat or two now?"

Parker squeaks and covers her mouth, horrified.

"Is it a goat?" questions Eliot, unconvinced.

Lindsey looks over towards Parker at her gasp, then at Bunny and Sprout sitting on the couch watching the game together on the huge screens mounted on the wall.

"At least it's not a rabbit," he says a little nastily, correctly surmising who the owner of the dingy stuffed bunny is. "They _always_ get the short end of the stick in this business."

Parker whimpers, and Hardison glares at Lindsey for making her almost-yet-not cry. "That ain't right, killing lil' bunny rabbits to get a- a better mortgage an' shit," he mutters. "Poor lil' suckas. It's sadistic, man. Someone oughta call PETA an' raid all them sacrifices and rituals. Ain't right. Bunny rabbits never did nothin' to no one."

"So it's not a rabbit," Eliot clarifies. "It's not a goat either. What is it?"

Sophie sees the lie before it's even fully formed.

"It's not that big a deal," Lindsey says, looking straight into his brother's eyes.

"Human?" Eliot's voice is hard; although it sounds young, the tone behind it is older and more experienced in navigating the former lawyer's complicated way of thinking.

"Uh," Nate cuts in, "I don't think…We really can't condone a spell that uses human sacrifices. Is there another alternative? I don't think we'd mind waiting, if we can avoid killing someone."

"It's not a person anyone would miss," Lindsey says almost flippantly. "It's only one anyway. Guys. It is not a big deal."

"I rather think it is," Sophie starts hotly. "We're talking about a human being here, Lindsey. You're talking about killing a person. Not only is that miles past morally grey, it's _wrong._ It's _murder_. _Nothing_ is worth that."

Eliot has been silent the whole time, staring at his brother. Parker wonders if twins can read each other's minds. Then she pauses. Of course they can, silly. She snorts. _Duh_.

"You really have that low an opinion of yourself, Lindsey?" he says slowly. "You'd do _that_? What is _wrong_ with you?"

Lindsey looks at him. "I already told you guys. I'm not a good person." _Like you,_ he thinks, knowing that Eliot's receiving loud and clear,_ I'm the bad one. Evil twin, that's me. It's in the job description. Even signed my soul over to the devil. Evil._

"Well, we can start now," Hardison says to the scary people-sacrificing dude, "Can't we? Yeah, we can totally find some other way to turn him back, right? Without killing no one. I mean, Eliot wouldn't stand for that, would you, man? Eliot? Brah? No killin' people policy? That's still on, ain't it?"

Eliot's gaze is still locked on Lindsey. "Someone no one would miss…except for me. Ain't that right, Linny? The sacrifice is you."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

><p>AN: Dun-dun-duuuun. Cliffie. Sorry. But it got too long to put in one chapter, so here it is in two.<p>

Yes, that was a reference to _Supernatural. _Dean has something against witches killing rabbits. "Why's the rabbit always screwed in the deal? Poor little guy." I swear, there is a genuine tear in his eye during that scene. Also, while we're talking about killing rabbits, does anyone want to volunteer to shoot my pet plot bunny, Brucie? Or ya know, serve him up in a stew or something? Poisoned carrot cookie brownies? He's really, _really_ bugging me…

* * *

><p>Review Reply to anon reviewer kkatee:<p>

Yes, I know I asked, and thank you for the honest, constructive reply to my question. I appreciate it more than simple praise for lackluster writing. What you said about the scene made me think (and the best reviews make the author think about why they wrote a certain scene for a reason other than "I wanted to" or "I thought it would be cute"). You're right. As a child, Eliot would not have been well, _needy_ like this. He had a twin brother who would always back him up and get into trouble with him, loving parents, and two little sisters. He'd never known anything else. This de-aged Eliot has lived an over-full life and knows the value of people who truly care, simply because he's been on his own for so long around people who are only interested in 1) killing him, or 2) using him to kill people. I think that's what's going on. Thoughts? Of course, the real reason for that scene was "I want angsty angst and fatherly Nate, dammit!"…Best parts? D'aww, thanks. That makes me feel bunches better about that chapter. It had been bugging me since I wrote it. Hence the AN…Oh, do write that story. I'd really love to read it. I mean, the only reason I even wrote this story myself was because I was craving Leverage/Angel fics and I couldn't find any more!...Your age? Let's see, you haven't written fanfic in 18 years, so that makes you, what, 17? I wasn't a math major, see, so I can't divide for beans. Or is it multiplication in this case? No, it's subtraction. ;D


	17. Lindsey McDonald: Suicidal Idiot

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**Lindsey McDonald: Suicidal Idiot, aka This is Why Eliot is the Big Brother**

Sophie gasps, and the others aren't far behind, as they finally realize the full meaning of what Eliot had understood from what his brother had said and _not_ said.

Lindsey flinches. "Literally, yeah," he scoffs darkly, "You're the only one from my old life who even knows I'm alive, and most of the people I meet nowadays only know me for as long as I'm in town, and never by my real name. I'm tired of running and hiding, El. I'm not _living_; I'm a zombie with an expiration date. And that's the cold, honest truth."

"You eat brains?" Parker asks, fascinated.

Lindsey stares at her. "No."

Eliot jabs a finger at his brother. "You chose that life, man. Live with it."

"Exactly!" Lindsey says, pointing a finger of his own at Eliot, "It's my life. I can do what I want with it, including this."

"This, huh?" Eliot replies, marching over to where, if he'd been his real height, he would be nose-to-nose with Lindsey, "You can't even say it. You're gonna kill yourself for me, Linny? Bleed yourself dry so I can grow up again? Huh? Well, it's not worth it, and you can't!" he shouts. "You need a piece of my hair, and you ain't gettin' it!" _So there!_

Lindsey snorts. "Yeah, no. That part's taken care of," he says, and holds up a tiny plastic baggie. "Took it while you were busy huggin' me. Good try."

Eliot scowls and crosses his arms. "That's cheating."

"Says the thief," Lindsey snorts.

"So're you," Eliot counters. "'Retrieval specialist' is a fancy word for 'thief'."

"Exactly. Hence the sleight of hand. I'm glad we're in agreement about this."

Nate clears his throat. "I, uh, I don't understand why you're doing this. It's not a life or death situation, even if he does stay like this until he eventually grows up the natural way. He's not in any danger. So why are you giving _your_ life up for this?"

He asks, but he knows why. Eliot had told him the night before. Everything Lindsey had in him, he'd put into getting to the top, to getting away from his destitute past. Ambition and his brother were the only things that had mattered. And when he'd lost the former, then, well then he had only Eliot left. And with Eliot like this…

The members of the team all look at Lindsey, since they'd all been wondering more or less the same thing. (Except for Parker. She only really wants to know more about those bunnies and eating brains and if brain-eating bunnies are real, and if so, whether they would eat bunny brains or human brains, and also, where she can get one.)

"You wouldn't understand," Lindsey says simply. "You wouldn't get it, even if I did explain."

"Make me understand, then," Eliot says softly. "You've always been good at explainin' things, Linny. Just tell me why." He asks it, although he knows, he knows.

"You don't see it?" Lindsey huffs and begins pacing the room, his agitation clear in the way he's running his hands through his hair and in the set of his shoulders. "You're different. He's different, guys. I mean…You know the number of times that I remember ever seeing him cry? Without being in serious pain, or drunk, or _something_.

"Fifteen," he spits out, not waiting for an answer, "Fifteen times. Our entire lives. And roughly three-quarters of those instances were before we were ten. He didn't even cry at our sisters' funeral, or at our parents' funerals. That was me. Growing up, I was the one who cried. I'll admit that, gladly. But he never did. And since he's been like this, how many times has he done it? Not just once, or twice? Three times? Once a week? He called me, and he was in tears, bawling. He doesn't _do_ that. He just doesn't."

He looks at Eliot, who's staring at Lindsey wide-eyed at the barrage of hurtful words and _betrayal_. "You're not my brother like this, Eliot. You're just not. I want _him_ back."

"He's been through a lot," Hardison says defensively. "Lotsa emotions in a little body. Give him a break, man. That just ain't fair."

"You're mean," Parker says, glaring daggers at Fake Eliot and sliding a small, thin, rope-cutting knife out of her pants pocket. "Don't pick on him."

"I'm still your brother," Eliot whispers, hurt. "I am."

"It's not the same," Lindsey says roughly. "I'm old enough to be your father, Eliot. How messed up is that? My twin brother is seven years old." He swallows hard and looks away. "I'm trying to help you, El. You don't want Parker getting hurt again, do you? It could be Sophie the next time, or Hardison. Nate. He's gotten shot, what, twice already? Could be through the heart next time, or in the head. You willing to risk that?" _Stop looking at me like that, Eliot. Stop it. It's for your own good._

Eliot's posture changes, droops, visibly wilts, and Lindsey has a moment of triumph before his now-much-younger brother is hurtling himself into his arms and he's got a seven-year-old wrapped around his waist and howling into his shirt.

"What the- " he says, and pulls the tousled-haired head away from his increasingly moistening stomach.

Big, no, _huge_ cornflower blue eyes look up at him, drowning in tears, one fat tear after another rolling down the round cheeks. His lower lip is trembling, and hell, Lindsey's seen _that_ expression before.

"Oh, no," he says, prying the small arms from his waist and backing away, hands up in front of him, warding off the small figure, "Oh _hell_ no. No, no, no. Don't you even _dare_ try that, you little brat."

And then Eliot's burrowing into his shirt again, clutching tight fistfuls of the fabric, wailing, "Don't do it, don't go, don't leave me, Linnyyyyyyy," at the top of his lungs, and it's all perfectly heartbreaking.

"Eliot! Stop it," he growls, but it's no use, not really. "I know what you're doing, and it won't work."

"What _is_ he doing?" Parker whispers to Hardison, who shakes his head, shrugs, and watches the drama unfold in fascination, cell phone in hand.

"You can't leave meeeeeee, you can't kill yourseeeeelf, Liiiiinnyyyyyyyy, don't dieeeeee, Linnyyyyyyyy, not for meeeeeee," Eliot sobs pathetically, latching on even harder, climbing his brother, "Don't goooooooo. Don't leave meeeeee, Linnyyyyyyy. I'll never, _ever _forgive you, Linnyyyyy!"

"Stop that!"

"_Linnnnyyyyyyyyy!"_

"Fine!" Lindsey erupts. "Fine," he says again through gritted teeth. "I won't do the spell. Okay? Stop cryin' and makin' a fool out of yourself."

The heaving sobs stop, and the boy breathes hitching gasps into his brother's waist. He looks back up at him, and now, the tears are clinging to the laughably long eyelashes, his wet cheeks are red from the effort of so much childlike angst and woe, and that lower lip's still trembling, and the overall effect is simply overwhelmingly pitiful.

"Promise?"

Lindsey's nostrils flare. "Don't push it, ya little punk."

Eliot takes a big breath, and…

"No, don't do it. Eliot. I'm warning you." Lindsey glares ineffectually at the boy.

It's kind of a comical scene, to tell the truth, like a kid begging something out of his daddy, and daddy losing big time. Oh yeah, that's almost exactly what this situation is. Replace "kid" with "de-aged big brother" and "daddy" with "formerly younger twin," and this is exactly it.

"Don't you _dare_."

Eliot's face crumbles and the wail's about to start again, the fat tears are rolling, and Lindsey knows it, and he just. Can't. Stand it. In fact, he's near tears himself - tears of frustration.

"Okay! Yes, I promise. Alright? Stop it. Right this minute."

And Eliot steps away, wipes his face on his sleeve, and _smirks_. "No goin' back, Linny," he says smugly, perfectly calm now. "You _promised._ No backsies."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

><p>AN: What? I promised you a tantrum or two, didn't I? Also, Eliot's <em>manipulative<em>. He learned it from the best, after all.

Lindsey being mean about telling everyone that Eliot's a crybaby was supposed to be a kind of retaliation for the Captain Hook hand comment Eliot made earlier. Because that was mean, too.

Also, the reveal: Here's my reasoning for whatever is wrong with Lindsey's brain. In canon, his character is always oh-so-very careful about being safe, being secure, being secret, but then all of a sudden, something happens that _gets_ to him, and he does one big, huge reckless _wtf?_ thing. This is it. *sigh* Idiot little brothers.


	18. Piece of Pie

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**Piece of Pie**

Lindsey huffs. He hates this. This de-aging business is not only throwing Eliot off, it's throwing _him_ off, and he does not like it. At all. Especially when Eliot, the one that's _not_ supposed to cry, uses it on him, knowing full well the effect it would have on him. And this, right after Lindsey's accusation that this version of Eliot cries too much. It's not fair.

"I hate you."

"Right back at ya. Sucka," Eliot cackles exultantly, waving the little plastic baggie with a few strands of his hair in it. It's cute. You can't help wanting to pinch his adorable pink cheeks.

Except Lindsey wants to sock those same cherubic cheeks instead. He holds back. It might count as abuse of a minor, and he doesn't want to get on the wrong side of the law, having a healthy respect for it and its countless intricacies.

"I _hate_ you."

Eliot giggles. "I know!"

"_I hate you."_

The team gapes at the pair of them.

"Did Eliot just con his brother?" Sophie asks, a little dazedly.

Nate tilts his head, thinks. "It's not really a con if he knows what's going on. Good use of pathos," he adds, "Lindsey's law training seems to have rubbed off on Eliot. Either that, or he's been paying attention to your lessons in grifting. We could use that to our advantage."

Sophie makes a disapproving noise at him and glares.

Nate looks at her. "What?" he asks, not seeing the problem. Child labor is something that happens to other people. And technically, Eliot isn't a child. So using him to charm marks wouldn't be unethical in the least. He'll be just another tool in the toolbox.

Meanwhile, Eliot and Lindsey seem to have come to some odd kind of mutual agreement of "hating" each other. Or rather, accepting the fact that Lindsey hates Eliot and the way he _giggles_ and gloats at the whole situation.

"We always gave in when our little sister did that to us. And she did it _all the time_," Eliot explains, grinning at his brother. He snorts, "Linny _always_ gave in first."

"Nuh-uh, the way I remember it, you did, Mr. I'll-give-ya-candy-if-ya-just-stop-_cryin'_," Lindsey retorts with a mocking tone at the end.

Eliot shrugs, not really caring who really gave in first, just that Lindsey did just now. "Ya know, I've never done that before," he says, putting his hands in the pockets on his tiny jeans and grinning widely. "That was incredibly…liberating."

Lindsey gives in to his fraternal instinct and cuffs him on the back of the head. Hard. "You ever do that again, I will spank you. Got it?"

"Yessir," Eliot says, saluting. "Scout's honor."

Lindsey rolls his eyes. "Wrong hand, midget. And you've never been a Boy Scout in your life. I should know."

Eliot flips Lindsey the bird in reply. It's accompanied by the most adorable, dimpled smile in the world.

Lindsey's left eyelid twitches.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

They settle on what to do about this whole mess after pie. _After_ pie, because pie is sacred (which, incidentally, is why π is an infinitely never-repeating number - It's magical).

Throughout pie time, however, Lindsey and Eliot go through a series of facial acrobatics that Parker thinks is hilarious, Hardison thinks might mean they have some kind of weird genetic facial tic dealio that's activated when they're in close contact, Sophie is able to read quite well, and Nate pretends to ignore. There is also surreptitious kicking under the table, but no one pays any attention to that.

Yeah. No one. _Ouch_. (Someone just missed.)

When the last bite of pie has been devoured, Lindsey huffs at Eliot and growls at the rest of them, "Looks like you guys just hired yourselves a new hitter," through bared and gritted teeth.

Eliot beams at him.

Nate looks between the twins. "What?"

"Don't worry, Nate," Lindsey says, putting his plate aside and folding his hands. "I come highly recommended. Do you need a resume? Curriculum vitae?" he asks with a sarcastic smile.

Eliot nods. "He's good. He's a big fat liar, but he's good. I trained him. The physical stuff, not the magic part. Now you can do cons _safer_ 'n I don't hafta worry so much about you guys gettin' hurt 'cause you'll have backup. An' I can keep an eye on him so he doesn't keep tryin' ta kill himself." He glares at Lindsey as he says the last part and gets a disgruntled growl for his trouble.

Parker's staring at Lindsey, scrutinizing him. "Do you have magical healing powers?" she fires at him.

He frowns. "Umm, not at the moment, but that can easily be arranged. Why?"

"Eliot does. Do you cook?"

Eliot snorts. He gets it: it's an interview, Parker-style. "No, he doesn't. Can't even make Jell-O properly," he says gleefully.

Lindsey scowls at his shorter brother. "Hey! That's not true. I can, too."

"Can not."

"Can- " He stops mid-sentence and puts his face in his hand. "What the hell am I doin'? You manipulative little- " He pounds the table with his available fist.

Eliot grins up at him. It's not adorable at all, nope, not at all. Punchable, definitely, but not adorable.

"Okay, you can't cook," Parker continues. "That's bad. But can you sing?"

"No."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Eliot sing-songs, rocking back and forth in his chair. There's such a joyful grin on his face that it's hard to stay mad at him. Lindsey manages it anyway. "You can't lie to the team. And I can tell when you're lyin', even if I _did_ know that you _can_ sing."

Lindsey sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fine, yes, I can sing. But I don't sing in front of people, so don't expect me to play fiddle in a con."

Eliot crosses his arms.

"I don't sing in front of audiences _anymore_," Lindsey adds stiffly onto his statement to make it true. "Brat."

Eliot nods in approval. He turns to the team, bouncing in his seat. _So, what do you think?_

"Umm," Hardison starts, not really believing this _Twilight Zone-Parent Trap_ world. "Okay. But only if you teach me how to hack using magic."

Lindsey nods shortly.

Parker heaves a huge sigh. "Fine. He's not Eliot, but no one's Real Eliot except for Eliot. At least he _looks_ like Eliot. He's Fake Eliot."

Lindsey doesn't even grace that with a reply. He simply glares at his twin. _You expect me to work with Crazy over there? You _owe_ me. Big._

Sophie turns to the mastermind. "Nate?"

"We'll give it a trial run," he tells the former borderline-evil lawyer. "One month. Then we'll see."

"Alright," Lindsey says pleasantly. "Now that that's all settled, please excuse me. I have to go drown my annoying little brother." And he scoops Eliot up in a one-armed fireman's hold and stalks away.

Eliot struggles and thumps his small fists against the broad back. "Lemme go, you dick! Put me down!" This is not how he wants to be repaid for saving Linny's suicidal ass_._

Parker follows them saying, "Hey, wait up! I wanna watch!" and Hardison rushes after her with his cell phone on "record."

Sophie starts to say something and pauses. "Um, should we do something?"

Nate grunts and pours himself a drink. "He won't hurt him. Eliot trusts him, and Parker and Hardison are with them. Eliot's safe." He stops to rethink what he'd just said. "Probably."

Sophie looks at him. "We should…" she says, and cocks her head at the door.

"Yeah." Nate takes a sip of his whiskey and follows his team out in case they need a mature adult supervisor.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

><p>AN: The Boy Scout "wrong hand" thing was from "The Two Horse Job." I thought it was really funny of Eliot to do that. Does anyone know, was that a Chris'n'Tim improv thing, or was it in the script?<p>

Pie. Oh, pie, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: 3.14159265…Readers may recall Dean Winchester's "Don't forget the pie!" line here. Simple coincidence. *cough*

This is the last chapter. It's been a fun ride, and thanks for all the wonderful reviews and review reply replies. Oh gosh, there are too many of you regular reviewers to name, but let me give it a try: Harm Marie, Saffygirl, Jesco123, saides, Touch of the Wind, kkatee, Jadyn Helvetica, mikafan17, One-Eyed Lady, zippy zany, Jen, peppymint, FirstBorn…did I miss anyone?

Anyway…Wow. I bet this didn't end the way you thought it would. You all thought this last chapter would be a fix-it, huh? But nope. Eliot's stuck (for now). Just 'cause. (I bet some of you - not to name names - are happy that I left him like that.) But no worries, I'm writing more to this verse (for example, something like "How the Leverage Team Taught Lindsey to Be a Team Player"). And maybe that Caritas prequel, too…Also, be sure to stop by and read my Christmas fic in this verse!

Thank you so much for sticking with me this whole time. I think this "write the entire story before posting the first chapter" thing is what really works for me. So until then…Ta!

**Edit: **For more of this verse, check out my profile. I have a list of all the McDonald Boys stories in order of publication _and_ in chronological order. Just as an FYI, though, it makes more sense if you read them in the order in which I posted them. Thanks! This story has been nominated for the Fulcrum Awards at Leverage Fan Media dot com. Thank you!


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